E- 


LIBRARY 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

SANTA  BARBARA 


PRESENTED  BY 
MRS. 

ERIC  SCHMIDT 


f 


MY  MUSICAL  MEMORIES 


BY 

H.    H.    HA.WEIS 

ArTHOB    OP     "MUSIC    AKD    MOKALS,"     "AMERICAN    HUMORISTS,"    ETC. 


NEW  YORK 

FUNK  &  WAGNALLS,   PUBLISHERS 
10  AND  12  DEY  STREET 

1884 


PUBLISHERS1  NOTE. 


This  book  is  published  from  advance  sheets,  simultaneously  with 
its  appearance  in  England.  With  the  aid  of  the  author,  it  has  been 
revised  for  publication  in  this  country,  portions  being  omitted  which 
were  deemed  of  less  interest  to  American  readers. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1884,  by 

PUNK  &  WAGNALLS, 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress  at  Washington,  D.  C, 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  I.  PAGE 

EARLY  LIFE  AND  RECOLLECTIONS 5 

CHAPTER  II. 
HEARING  Music ." 49 

CHAPTER  III. 
OLD  VIOLLXS 85 

CHAPTER  IV. 
PAGANINI 105 

CHAPTER  V. 
WAGNER 144 

CHAPTER  VI. 
PARSIFAL 200 

CHAPTER  VII. 
THE  NIEBELTJNG'S  RING. 

I.— Rheingold 225 

II. — Walkiire 230 

III.— Siegfried 236 

IV.— The  Gdtterdammerung 242 

CHAPTER  VIII. 
LISZT.  . .  .251 


MY    MUSICAL    MEMORIES. 


CHAPTER  I. 

EAKLY   LIFE   AND   RECOLLECTIONS. 

I  THINK  it  was  Lord  Beaconsfield  who  said  that  .a 
man  is  usually  interesting  in  proportion  as  his  talk  runs 
upon  what  he  is  familiar  with  ;  and  that  as  a  man  usually 
knows  more  about  himself  than  about  anything  else,  he 
seldom  fails  to  be  tolerable  if  his  self-centred  talk  turns 
out  to  be  unaffected  and  sincere.  To  talk  about  one' s 
self  and  to  be  dull  is  nevertheless  possible.  In  the 
early  pages  of  this  volume  I  shall  have  to  do  the  first  to 
a  considerable  extent  ;  let  me  hope  to  avoid  the  second. 

Music  is  not  the  business  of  my  life,  but  it  remains  its 
sweetest  recreation  ;  and  there  is  one  opinion  which  used 
to  be  widely  held  by  my  friends  in  the  old  days,  and  to 
which  I  subscribed  for  many  years.  .Nature,  they  often 
said,  intended  me  for  a  violinist.  In  fact,  my  musical 
life  starts  from  the  violin  ;  and,  "  Stradivario  duce"  — 
Stradivarius  leading  the  way — I  feel  inspired,  "  after 
long  years,"  to  retrace  with  a  certain  keen  pleasure 
these  labyrinthine  passages  of  Musical  Memory. 

There  is  something  about  the  shape  of  a  violin — its 
curves,  its  physiognomy,  its  smiling  and  genial  £  £'s — 
which  seems  to  invite  and  welcome  inspection  and 
handling. 


C  MY   MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

Tarisio,  the  Italian  carpenter,  came  under  this  fascina- 
tion to  good  purpose.  He  began  by  mending  old 
fiddles  ;  he  himself  played  a  little  ;  he  grew  more  enam- 
ored of  these  mysterious,  lifeless,  yet  living  companions 
of  his  solitude,  until  he  began  to  "  trade  in  fiddles." 

At  the  beginning  of  this  century,"  hidden  away  in  old 
Italian  convents  and  wayside  inns,  lay  the  masterpieces 
of  the  Amati,  Stradivarius,  the  Guarnerii,  and  Bergonzi, 
almost  unknown  and  little  valued.  But  Tarisio's  eye 
was  getting  cultivated.  He  was  learning  to  know  a 
fiddle  when  Tie  saw  it. 

"  Your  violin,  signor,  requires  mending  ?"  says  the 
itinerant  peddler,  as  he  salutes  some  monk  or  padre 
known  to  be  connected  with  the  sacristy  or  choir  of  Pisa, 
Florence,  Milan.  "  I  can  mend  it." 

Out  comes  the  Stradivarius,  with  a  loose  bar  or  a 
split  rib,  and  sounding  abominably. 

"  Dio  mio  !"  says  Tarisio,  "  and  all  the  blessed 
saints  !  but  your  violin  is  in  a  bad  way.  My  respected 
father  is  prayed  to  try  one  that  I  have,  in  perfect  and 
beautiful  accord  and  repair  ;  and  permit  me  to  mend 
this  worn-out  machine. ' ' 

And  Tarisio,  whipping  a  shining,  clean  instrument 
out  of  his  bag,  hands  it  to  the  monk,  who  eyes  it  and  is 
for  trying  it.  He  tries  it  ;  it  goes  soft  and  sweet, 
though  not  loud  and  wheezy,  like  the  battered  old  Strad. 
Tarisio  clutches  his  treasure. 

The  next  day  back  comes  the  peddler  to  the  cloister, 
is  shown  up  to  the  padre,  whom  he  finds  scraping  away 
on  his  loan  fiddle. 

"  But,"  he  exclaims,  "  you  have  lent  me  a  beautiful 
violin,  and  in  perfect  order." 

"Ah!  if  the  father  would  accept  from  me  a  small 
favor,"  says  the  cunning  Tarisio. 


TARISIO.  7 

"  And  what  is  that  ?" 

"  To  keep  the  violin  that  suits  him  so  well,  and  I 
will  take  in  exchange  the  old  machine  which  is  worn  out, 
but  with  my  skill  I  shall  still  make  something  of  it  !" 

A  glass  of  good  wine,  or  a  lemonade,  or  black  coffee, 
clinches  the  bargain.  Off  goes  Tarisio,  having  parted 
with  a  characterless  German  fiddle — sweet  and  easy- 
going and  "  looking  nice,"  and  worth  now  about  £5 — 
in  perfect  order,  no  doubt — and  having  secured  one  of 
those  gems  of  Cremona  which  now  run  into  £300. 
Violin-collecting  became  the  passion  of  Tarisio's  life. 
The  story  has  been  told  by  Mr.  Charles  Reade,  and  all 
the  fiddle- world  knows  how  Tarisio  came  to  Paris  with  a 
batch  of  old  instruments,  and  was  taken  up  by  Chanot 
and  Vuillaume,  through  whose  hands  passed  nearly 
every  one  of  those  chefs-d'oeuvre  recovered  by  Tarisio  in 
his  wanderings,  which  now  are  so  eagerly  contended  for 
by  English  and  American  millionaires,  whenever  they 
happen  to  get  into  the  market. 

I  have  heard  of  a  mania  for  snuff-boxes — it  was  old 
Lablache's  hobby.  There  are  your  china-maniacs,  and 
your  picture-maniacs,  and  your  old-print  connoisseurs 
who  only  look  at  the  margin,  and  your  old-book  hunters 
who  only  glance  at  the  title-page  and  edition,  and  your 
coin-collectors,  and  your  gem-collectors,  who  are  always 
being  taken  in ;  but  for  downright  fanaticism  and 
"  gone-cooniness,"  if  I  may  invent  the  word,  commend 
me  to  your  violin -maniac.  He  who  once  comes  under 
that  spell,  goes  down  to  the  grave  with  a  disordered 
mind. 

I  said  that  I  was,  perhaps,  intended  for  a  violinist  by 
nature.  I  can  understand  Tarisio's  passion,  though  I 
never  followed  out  that  particular  branch  of  it  which  led 
him  to  collect,  repair,  and  sell.  I  could  not  buy  vio- 


8  MY   MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

lins — the  prices  have  risen  since  the  days  of  the  Italian 
peddler.  I  could  not  cheat  people  out  of  them  ;  the 
world  was  too  knowing  for  that — and  then  I  was  too 
virtuous.  I  could  not  "  travel  "  in  violins  ;  it  was  not 
ray  vocation,  and  one  may  in  these  days  go  far  and  get 
little — for  it  is  now  about  as  easy  to  find  a  Stradivarius 
as  a  Corregffio.  But  lon^  before  I  had  ever  touched  a 

OO  CJ 

violin  I  was  fascinated  with  its  appearance.  In  driv- 
ing up  to  town  as  a  child — when,  standing  up  in  the 
carriage,  I  could  just  look  out  of  the  window — certain 
fiddle-shops  hung  with  mighty  rows  of  violoncellos  at- 
tracted my  attention.  I  had  dreams  of  these  large  edi- 
tions— these  patriarchs  of  the  violin,  as  they  seemed  to 
me.  I  compared  them  in  my  mind  with  the  smaller 
tenors  and  violins.  I  dreamed  about  their  brown,  big, 
dusty  bodies  and  affable  good-natured-looking  heads  and 
grinning  ££'s.  These  violin  shops  were  the  great  points 
watched  for  on  each  journey  up  to  London  from  Nor- 
wood, where  I  spent  my  early  days. 

Youth  is  the  great  season  of  surprises,  as  it  certainly 
is  of  delights.  There  never  were  such  buttercup  fields 
and  strawberry  ices  as  in  the  days  of  my  childhood. 
Men  try  to  make  hay  now,  but  it  is  poor  work  ;  and 
as  for  modern  ices,  they  are  either  frozen  amiss  or  ill- 
mixed.  They  are  not  good  enough  for  me,  who  can  re- 
member what  they  were  in  the  Exhibition  of  1851. 
One  of  my  keenest  musical  impressions  is  connected 
with  that  marvellous  show.  I  shall  never  see  such 
another.  As  I  stood  in  the  gallery  of  the  great  crystal 
transept  and  looked  down  upon  a  spectacle  such  as  has 
been  witnessed  since,  but  had  never  before  been  seen,  a 
feeling  of  intoxication — there  is  no  other  word  for  it — 
came  over  me. 

I  remember  perfectly  well  falling  into  a  kind  of  dream 


A   TRANCE.  9 

as  I  leaned  over  the  painted  iron  balcony  and  looked  down 
on  the  splendid  vista.  The  silver-bell-like  tones  of  an 
Erard — it  was  the  1000-guinea  piano — pierced  through 
the  human  hum  and  noise  of  splashing  waters,  but  it 
was  a  long  way  off.  Suddenly,  in  the  adjoining  gallery, 
the  large  organ  broke  out  with  a  blare  of  trumpets  that 
thrilled  and  riveted  me  with  an  inconceivable  emotion. 
I  knew  not  then  what  those  opening  bars  were.  Evi- 
dently something  martial,  festal,  jubilant,  and  full  of 
triumph.  I  listened  and  held  my  breath  to  hear  Men- 
delssohn's "Wedding  March"  for  the  first  time,  and 
not  know  it !  To  hear  it  when  half  the  people  present 
had  never  heard  of  Mendelssohn,  three  years  after  his 
death,  and  when  not  one  in  a  hundred  could  have  told 
me  what  was  being  played — that  is  an  experience  I  shall 
never  forget.  As  successive  waves  of  fresh  inexhausti- 
ble inspiration  flowed  on,  vibrating  through  the  building 
without  a  check  or  a  pause,  the  peculiar  Mendelssohnian 
spaces  of  cantabile  melody  alternating  as  they  do  in  that 
march  with  the  passionate  and  almost  fierce  decision  of 
the  chief  processional  theme,  I  stood  riveted,  bathed  in 
the  sound  as  in  an  element.  I  felt  ready  to  melt  into 
those  harmonious  yet  turbulent  waves  and  float  away 
upon  the  tides  of  "Music's  golden  sea  setting  toward 
Eternity."  The  angel  of  Tennyson's  Yision  might  have 
stood  by  me  whispering, 

And  thou  listenest  the  lordly  music  flowing  from  the  illimitable  years. 

Some  one  called  me,  so  I  was  told  afterward,  but  I  did 
not  hear.  They  supposed  that  I  was  following  ;  they 
went  on,  and  were  soon  lost  in  the  crowd.  Presently 
one  came  back  and  touched  me,  but  I  did  not  feel.  I 
could  not  be  roused,  my  soul  was  living  apart  from  my 
body.  When  the  music  ceased  the  spell  slowly  dis- 


10  MY   MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

solved,  and  I  was  led  away  still  half  in  dreamland.  For 
long  years  afterward  the  "Wedding  March,"  which  is 
now  considered  banale  and  clap-trap  by  the  advanced 
school,  affected  me,  strangely.  Its  power  over  me  has 
almost  entirely  ceased.  It  is  a  memory  now  more  than 
a  realization — 

eheu  !  fugaces.  Posthume, 
Poathume,  labuntur  anni — 

This  was  in  1851  ;  but  it  must  have  been  about  the 
year  1846  that  I  was  taken  up  to  a  concert  at  Exeter 
Hall,  and  heard  there  for  the  first  time  what  seemed  to 
me  to  be  music  of  unearthly  sweetness. 

The  room  was  crowded.  I  was  far  behind.  I  could 
only  see  the  fiddlesticks  of '  the  band  in  the  distance. 
Four  long-drawn-out  tender  wails  on  the  wind  rising, 
rising  ;  then  a  soft,  rapid,  flickering  kind  of  sound,  high 
up  in  the  treble  clef,  broke  from  a  multitude  of  fiddles, 
ever  growing  in  complexity  as  the  two  fiddles  at  each 
desk  divided  the  harmonies  among  them,  pausing  as 
the  deep  melodious  breathing  of  wind  instruments  sus- 
pended in  heavy  slumbrous  sighs  their  restless  agitation, 
then  recommencing  till  a  climax  was  reached,  and  the 
whole  band  broke  in  with  that  magnificent  subject 
which  marks  the  first  complete  and  satisfying  period  of 
musical  solution  in  the  overture  to  the  "Midsummer 
Night's  Dream  !" 

I  was  at  once  affected  as  I  had  never  before  been.  I 
did  not  know  then  that  it  was  the  Mendelssohn  mania 
that  had  come  upon  me.  It  seized  upon  the  whole 
musical  world  of  forty  years  ago,  and  discolored  the 
taste  and  judgment  of  those  affected,  for  every  other 
composer.  The  epidemic  lasted  for  about  twenty  years 
at  its  height ;  declined  rather  suddenly  with  the  growing 
appreciation  of  Schumann,  the  tardy  recognition  of 


NURSERY   FIDDLES.  11 

Spohr,  and  the  revival  of  Schubert,  receiving  its  quietus 
of  course  with  the  triumph  of  Wagner.  People  now 
"  place"  Mendelssohn  ;  then  they  worshipped  him. 

As  my  ideas  group  themselves  most  naturally  about 
my  favorite  instrument  —  the  violin  —  I  may  as  well 
follow  the  thread  of  my  narrative  in  connection  with 
my  earliest  violin  recollections.  I  became  possessed, 
at  the  age  of  six  years,  of  a  small  red  eighteen-penny 
fiddle  and  stick,  with  that  flimsy  bow  and  those  thready 
strings,  which  are  made  apparently  only  to  snap,  even 
as  the  fiddle  is  made  only  to  smash.  I  thus  early 
became  familiar  with  the  idol  of  my  youth.  But  famil- 
iarity did  not  breed  contempt.  I  proceeded  to  elicit, 
from  the  red  eighteen-penny  all  it  had  to  give  :  and 
when  I  had  done  with  it,  my  nurse  removed  the  belly, 
and  found  it  made  an  admirable  dustpan  or  wooden 
shovel  for  cinders,  and,  finally,  excellent  firewood. 
Many  went  that  way,  without  my  passion  for  toy  fiddles 
suffering  the  least  decline  ;  nay,  it  rather  grew  by  what  it 
(and  the  fire)  fed  on.  It  may  not  be  superfluous  to  add 
that  I  had  by  this  time  found  means  to  make  the  flim- 
siest strings  yield  up  sounds  which  I  need  not  here  char- 
acterize, and  to  such  purpose  that  it  became  a  question 
of  some  interest  how  long  such  sounds  could  be  endured 
by  the  human  ear.  I  do  not  mean  my  own.  All  vio- 
linists, including  infants  on  eighteen-pennies,  admit  that 
to  their  own  ear  the  sounds  produced  are  nothing  but 
delightful ;  it  is  only  those  who  do  not  make  them  who 
complain.  As  it  seemed  unlikely  that  my  studies  on 
the  violin  would  stop,  it  became  expedient  that  they 
should  be  directed.  A  full- sized  violin  was  procured 
me.  I  have  every  reason  to  believe  it  was  one  of  the 
worst  fiddles  I  ever  saw. 

I  had  played  many  times  with  much  applause,  holding 


12  MY   MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

a  full-sized  violin  between  my  knees.  I  was  about  eight 
years  old  when  the  services  of  the  local  organist — a  Mr. 
Ingram,  of  Norwood — were  called  in.  His  skill  on  the 
violin  was  not  great,  but  it  was  enough  for  me  ;  too 
much,  indeed,  for  he  insisted  on  my  holding  the  violin 
up  to  my  chin.  The  fact  is,  he  could  not  play  it  in  any 
other  position  himself,  so  how  could  he  teach  me  ?  Of 
course  the  instrument  was  a  great  deal  too  large  ;  but  I 
strained  and  stretched  until  I  got  it  up  ;  for  as  it  would 
not  grow  down  to  me,  I  had  to  grow  up  to  it.  And 
here  I  glance  at  the  crucial  question,  Ought  young  chil- 
dren to  begin  upon  small-sized  violins  ?  All  makers 
say  "  Yes  ;"  naturally,  for  they  supply  the  new  violins 
of  all  sizes.  Put  I  emphatically  say  "No."  The 
sooner  the  child  is  accustomed  to  the  right  violin  in- 
tervals the  better  ;  the  small  violins  merely  present  him 
with  a  series  of  wrong  distances,  which  he  has  successively 
to  unlearn.  It  is  bad  enough  if  in  after  years  he  learns 
the  violoncello  or  tenor.  Few  violinists  survive  that 
ordeal,  and  most  people  who  take  to  the  tenor  or  'cello 
after  playing  the  violin  keep  to  it.  Either  they  have 
not  been  successful  on  the  violin,  or  they  hope  to 
become  so  on  its  larger  though  less  brilliant  relation  ; 
but  they  have  a  perfectly  true  instinct  that  it  is  difficult 
to  excel  on  both,  because  of  the  intervals.  Yet,  in  the 
face  of  this,  you  put  a  series  of  violins  of  different  sizes 
into  the  pupil's  hand,  on  the  ground  that,  as  his  hand 
enlarges  with  years,  the  enlarged  key-board  will  suit  his 
fingers  better  ;  but  that  is  not  the  way  the  brain  works — 
the  brain  learns  intervals.  It  does  not  trouble  itself 
about  the  size  of  the  fingers  that  have  to  stretch  them. 

A  child  of  seven  or  eight  can  stretch  most  of  the 
ordinary  intervals  on  a  full-sized  violin  finger-board. 
He  may  not  be  able  to  hold  the  violin  to  his  chin  ;  but 


EARLY   PRACTICE.  13 

he  can  learn  his  scales  and  pick  out  tunes,  sitting  on  a 
stool  and  holding  his  instrument  like  a  violoncello.  Be- 
fore the  age  of  eight  I  found  no  difficulty  in  doing  this. 
But  the  greater  the  difficulty  the  better  the  practice. 
The  tendons  cannot  be  too  much  stretched  short  of 
spraining  and  breaking.  Mere  aching  is  to  be  made  no 
account  of  ;  the  muscles  can  hardly  be  too  much  worked. 
A  cliild  will  soon  gain  surprising  agility,  even  on  a 
large  finger-board.  Avoid  the  hateful  figured  slip  of 
paper  that  used  to  be  pasted  on  violin  finger-boards  in 
my  youth,  with  round  dots  for  the  fingers.  I  remember 
tearing  mine  off  in  a  fit  of  uncontrollable  irritation.  I 
found  it  very  difficult,  with  the  use  of  my  eyes,  to  put 
my  fingers  on  the  dots,  and  even  then  the  note  was  not 
always  in  tune,  for  of  course  the  dot  might  be  covered 
in  a  dozen  ways  by  the  finger-tips,  and  a  hair's  breadth 
one  way  or  the  other  would  vary  the  note.  But  the 
principle  is  vicious.  A  violin  player's  eyes  have  no 
more  business  with  his  fingers  than  a  billiard  player's 
eyes  have  with  his  cue.  He  looks  at  the  ball ;  and  the 
musician,  if  he  looks  at  anything,  should  look  at  the 
notes,  or  at  his  audience,  or  he  can  shut  his  eyes  if  he 
likes.  It  is  his  ears,  not  his  eyes,  have  to  do  with  the 
fingers. 

I  was  about  eight  years  old.  My  musical  studies 
were  systematic,  if  not  well  directed.  Every  morning 
for  two  hours  I  practised  .  scales  and  various  tunes  at  a 
double  desk,  my  father  on  one  side  and  I  on  the  other. 
"\Ye  played  the  most  deplorable  arrangements,  and  we 
made  the  most  detestable  noise.  We  played  Beetho- 
ven's overture  to  "  Prometheus,"  arranged  for  two  fid- 
dles, Callcott's  German  melodies  with  piano-forte  accom- 
paniment, and  without  the  violoncello  part,  and  Corelli's 
trios — also  without  the  third  instrument.  I  had  some- 


14  MY   MUSICAL  MEMORIES. 

how  ceased  to  take  lessons  now.  My  father's  knowl- 
edge of  violin  playing  was  exactly  on  a  level  with  my 
own.  His  skill,  he  modestly  owned,  was  even  less  ;  but 
had  it  net  heen  for  him  I  never  should  have  played  at 
all.  Our  method  \vas  simple.  We  sat  for  two  hours 
after  breakfast  and  scraped.  In  the  evening,  with  the 
addition  of  the  piano,  we  scraped  again — anything  we 
could  get  hold  of — and  we  did  get  hold  of  odd  things  : 
Locke's  music  to  "  Macbeth,"  old  quadrilles,  the 
"Battle  of  Prague,"  "God  save  the  Emperor,"  and 
the  ' '  Huntsman's  Chorus. ' '  I  confess  I  hated  the  prac- 
tising ;  it  was  simple  drudgery — and  put  it  in  what 
way  you  will,  the  early  stage  of  violin  playing  is  drudg- 
ery ;  but  it  must  be  gone  through  with.  And  then  I 
had  my  hours  of  relaxation.  I  used  to  walk  up  and 
down  the  lawn  in  our  garden  playing  tunes  in  my  own 
fashion.  I  got  very  much  at  home  on  the  finger-board, 
and  that  is  the  grand  thing  after  all.  No  one  ever  gets 
at  home  there  who  has  not  begun  young — not  so  young 
as  I  began,  but  at  least  under  the  age  of  twelve.  I  was 
soon  considered  an  infant  phenomenon  on  the  violin, 
stood  on  tables,  and  was  trotted  out  at  parties,  and  I  thus 
early  got  over  all  shyness  at  playing  in  public. 

At  this  time  Jenny  Lind  and  Ernst  were  both  in  Lon- 
don ;  and  Liszt,  I  believe,  passed  through  like  a  meteor. 
I  never  heard  any  of  them  in  their  prime,  though  I  did 
hear  Madame  ,  Lind-Goldschmidt  sing  the  "Ravens" 
at  a  concert  years  afterward,  and  it  was  my  privilege 
to  hear  Ernst  before  he  had  lost  his  cunning,  nor  shall 
I  ever  hear  his  like  again.  lie  played  once  at  Her 
Majesty's  Opera  House,  when  the  whole  assembly 
seemed  to  dream  through  a  performance  of  the  "  Hun- 
garian Airs."  The  lightest  whisper  of  the  violin  con- 
trolled the  house  ;  the  magician  hardly  stirred  his  wand 


EENST.  15 

at  times,  and  no  one  could  tell  from  the  sound  when  he 
passed  from  the  up  to  the  down  bow  in  those  long  can- 
tabile  notes  which  had  such  power  to  entrance  me. 

I  heard  Ernst  later  at  Brighton.  He  played  out  of 
tune,  and  I  was  told  that  he  was  so  shaken  in  nerve, 
that,  playing  a  Beethoven  quartet  in  private,  and  corning 
to  a  passage  of  no  great  difficulty,  which  I  have  often 
scrambled  through  with  impunity,  the  great  master  laid 
down  his  fiddle  and  declared  himself  unequal  to  the 
effort. 

Great,  deep-souled,  weird  magician  of  the  Cremona  ! 
I  can  see  thy  pale,  gaunt  face  even  now  !  those  dark, 
haggard-looking  eyes,  with  the  strange  veiled  fires,  semi- 
mesmeric,  the  wasted  hands,  so  expressive  and  sensitive, 
the  thin,  lank  hair  and  emaciated  form,  yet  with  noth- 
ing demoniac  about  thee  like  Paganini,  from  whom  thou 
wast  absolutely  distinct.  No  copy  thou — thyself  all 
thyself — tender,  sympathetic,  gentle  as  a  child,  suffering, 
always  suffering  ;  full  of  an  excessive  sensibility  ;  full 
of  charm  ;  irresistible  and  fascinating  beyond  words  ! 
Thy  Cremona  should  have  been  buried  with  thee.  It 
has  fallen  into  other  hands.  I  see  it  every  season  in  the 
concert-room  :  Madame  Norman-Neruda  plays  it.  I 
know  she  is  an  admirable  artist.  I  do  not  hear  thy  Cre- 
mona ;  its  voice  has  gone  out  with  thee,  its  soul  has 
passed  with  thine. 

****** 

In  the  night  I  hear  it  under  the  stars,  when  the  moon 

is  low,  and  I  see  the  dark  ridges  of  the  clover  hills,  and 

rabbits  and  hares,  black  against  the  paler  sky,  pausing 

to  feed  or  crouching  to  listen  to  the  voices  of  the  night. 

****** 

Alone  in  the  autumn  woods,  when  through  the  shiver- 


16  MY    MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

ing  trees  I  see  the  angry  yellow  streaks  of  the  sunset, 
and  the  dead  leaves  fall  across  a  sky  that  threatens  storm. 

#  ,  *  .  *          ^  *   •        .  *  •  H 

By  the  sea,  when  the  cold  mists  rise,  and  hollow 
murmurs,  like  the  low  wail  of  lost  spirits,  rush  along  the 
beach. 

****** 

In  some  still  valley  in  the  South,  in  midsummer,  the 
slate-colored  moth  on  the  rock  flashes  suddenly  into 
crimson  and  takes  wing  ;  the  bright-eyed  lizard  darts 
timorously,  and  the  singing  of  the  grasshopper  never 
ceases  in  the  long  grass  ;  the  air  is  heavy  and  slumbrous 
with  insect  life  and  the  breath  of  flowers.  I  can  see  the 
blue  sky — intense  blue,  mirrored  in  the  lake — and  a  bird 
floats  mirrored  in  the  blue,  and  over  the  shining  water 
conies  the  sound,  breaking  the  singing  silences  of  nat- 
ure :  such  things  are  in  our  dreams  ! 

*  *  *  *  #'•-"» 

It  is  thus  only  I  can  hear  again  the  spirit  voice  of  thy 
Cremona,  dead  master  ;  but  not  at  St.  James's  Hall,  no 
longer  in  the  crowded  haunts  of  men  as  once.  Its  body 
only  is  there  :  its  soul  was  the  very  soul  of  the  master 
who  has  passed  to  where  the  chiming  is  "  after  the 
chiming  of  the  eternal  spheres." 

I  heard  other  great  players  :  Sivori,  delicate,  refined, 
with  a  perfect  command  of  his  instrument — a  pupil  of 
Paganini's,  playing  all  his  pieces,  and  probably  no  more 
like  him  than  a  Roman  candle  is  like  a  meteor  ;  Chat- 
terton  on  the  harp,  a  thankless  instrument,  without 
variety  and  never  in  tune,  whose  depths  are  quickly 
sounded — an  arpeggio,  a  few  harmonics,  a  few  full 
glorious  chords,  an  ethereal  whispering,  and  da  capo  ! 
Piatti  on  the  violoncello — a  truly  disembodied  violon- 
cello— so  pure  and  free  from  catgut  and  rosin  came  the 


MY   SECOND   MASTER.  17 

sound  ;  and  pianists  innumerable  in  later  days.  But  if, 
looking  back  and  up  to  the  present  hour,  I  am  asked  to 
name  off-hand  the  greatest  players — the  very  greatest  I 
have  heard — I  say  at  once  Ernst,  Liszt,  Rubinstein. 

From  such  heights  I  am  loath  to  return  to  my  own  in- 
significant doings,  but  they  happen  to  supply  me  with 
the  framework  for  my  present  meditations' :  they  are,  in 
fact,  the  pegs  on  which  I  have  chosen  to  hang  my 
thoughts.  I  was  at  a  complete  standstill  :  I  sorely 
needed  instruction.  I  went  to  the  seaside  for  my  health. 
One  day,  in  the  morning,  I  entered  the  concert  room  of 
the  town  hall  at  Margate.  It  was  empty,  but  on  a  plat- 
form at  the  farther  end,  half  a  dozen  musicians  were 
rehearsing.  One  sat  up  at  a  front  desk  and  seemed  to 
be  leading  on  the  violin.  As  they  paused,  I  walked 
straight  up  to  him.  I  was  about  twelve  then. 

"Please  sir,"  I  began  rather  nervously,  "do  you 
teach  the  violin  ?" 

He  looked  round  rather  surprised,  but  in  another 
moment  he  smiled  kindly,  and  said  : 

"Why,  yes — at  least,"  he  added,  "  that  depends. 
Do  you  mean  you  want  to  learn  ?" 

"  That's  it,"  I  said  ;  "  I  have  learned  a  little.  Will 
you  teach  me  ?" 

"Wait  a  bit.  I  must  finish  here  first,  and  then  I'll 
come  down  to  you.  Can  you  wait  ?"  he  added,  cheer- 

37- 

I  had  been  terribly  nervous  when  I  began  to  ask  him, 

but  now  I  felt  my  heart  beating  with  joy. 

"  Oh  yes,"  I  said,  "  I  can  wait !"  and  I  waited  and 
heard  them  play,  and  watched  every  motion  of  one 
whom  I  already  looked  upon  as  my  master. 

And  he  became  my  master — my  first  real  master. 
Good,  patient  Mr.  Devonport !  I  took  to  him,  and  he  took 


18  MY   MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

to  mo  at  once.  He  got  me  to  unlearn  all  my  slovenly 
ways,  taught  me  how  to  hold  my  fiddle  and  how  to  lin- 
ger and  how  to  bow.  It  seems  I  did  everything  wrong. 
He  used  to  write  out  Kreutzer's  early  exercises,  over  his 
breakfast,  and  bring  them  to  me  all  blotted,  in  pen  and 
ink,  and  actually  got  into  disgrace,  so  he  said,  with  his 
landlady,  for  inking  the  table-cloth  !  That  seemed  to 
me  heroic  ;  but  who  would  not  have  mastered  the  crab- 
bed bowing,  the  ups  and  downs  and  staccatos,  and  slur 
two  and  bow  one,  and  slur  three  and  bow  one,  and  slur 
two  and  two,  after  that  !  And  I  did  my  best,  though 
not  to  his  satisfaction  ;  but  he  never  measured  his  time 
with  me,  and  he  had  an  indefinitely  sweet  way  with  him 
which  won  me  greatly,  and  made  me  love  my  violin — a 
five-pound  Vuilhaume  copy  of  Stradivarius,  crude  in 
tone — more  than  ever. 

When  I  left  the  sea,  I  lost  my  master.  I  never  saw 
him  again.  If  he  is  alive  now,  and  these  lines  should 
chance  to  meet  his  eye,  I  will  join  hands  with  him  across 
the  years.  Why  should  he  not  be  alive  ?  Hullah  and 
Sainton  and  Piatti  and  Mme.  Dolby  and  Mine.  Lincl- 
Goldschmidt,  and  I  know  not  how  many  more  of  his 
contemporaries,  and  my  elders,  are  alive.  Only  there 
was  a  sadness  and  delicacy  about  that  pale  diaphanous 
face,  its  hectic  flush,  its  light  hair,  and  slight  fringe  of 
mustache  ;  I  can  remember  it  so  well ;  and  I  must 
own,  too,  there  was  a  little  cough,  which  makes  me  fear 
that  Devonport  was  not  destined  to  live  long.  Some  one 
remarked  it  at  the  time,  but  I  thought  nothing  of  it 
then. 

I  made  a  great  stride  under  Devonport,  and  my  next 
master,  whom  I  disliked  exceedingly,  was  a  young 
Pole,  Lapinski,  who  could  not  speak  a  word  of  English. 
Our  lessons  were  very  dull.  He  taught  me  little,  but 


THE    MYSTERY    OF   TEACHING.  19 

lie  taught  me  something — the  art  of  making  my  fingers 
ache — the  great  art,  according  to  Joachim.  My  time 
with  him  was  pure  drudgery,  unrelieved  by  a  single 
glow  of  pleasure  or  gleam  of  recreation  ;  he  was  a  dog- 
ged and  hard  taskmaster,  knew  exactly  what  he  meant, 
and  was  utterly  indifferent  to  the  likes  and  dislikes  of 
his  pupil — the  very  opposite  to  Devonport,  whom  in  six 
weeks  I  got  positively  to  love.  In  music,  you  learn 
more  in  a  week  from  a  sympathetic  teacher,  or  at  least 
from  some  one  who  is  so  to  you,  than  from  another, 
however  excellent,  in  a  month.  You  will  make  no 
progress  if  he  can  give  you  no  impulse. 

What  a  mystery  lies  in  that  word  "  teaching"  !  One 
will  constrain  you  irresistibly,  and  another  shall  not  be 
able  to  persuade  you.  One  will  kindle  you  with  an  am- 
bition that  aspires  to  what  the  day  before  seemed  inac- 
cessible heights,  while  another  will  labor  in  vain  to  stir 
your  sluggish  mood  to  cope  with  the  smallest  obstacle. 
The  reciprocal  relation  is  too  often  forgotten.  It  is  as- 
sumed that  any  good  master  or  mistress  will  suit  any 
willing  pupil.  IS^ot  at  all — any  more  than  A  can  mes- 
merize B,  who  goes  into  a  trance  immediately  on  the  ap- 
pearance of  C.  All  personal  relations,  and  teaching  re- 
lations are  intensely  personal,  have  to  do  with  subtle 
conditions — unexplored,  but  inexorable  and  instantly 
perceived.  The  soul  puts  out,  as  it  were,  its  invisible 
antennae,  knowing  the  soul  that  is  kindred  to  itself.  I 
do  not  want  to  be  told  whether  you  can  teach  me  any- 
thing. I  Icnoio  you  cannot.  I  will  not  learn  from  you 
what  I  must  learn  from  another  ;  what  he  will  be  bound 
to  teach  me.  All  you  may  have  to  say  may  be  good,  and 
true,  but  it  is  a  little  impertinent  and  out  of  place. 
You  spoil  the  truth.  You  mar  the  beauty.  I  will  not 
hear  these  things  from  you  ;  you  spoil  nature  ;  you 


20  MY   MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

wither  art  ;  yon  are  not  for  me,  and  I  am  not  for  you — • 
"  Let  us  go  hence,  my  songs — she  will  not  hear." 

My  next  master  was  Oury.  I  fell  in  with  him  at 
Brighton  when  I  was  about  sixteen.  He  had  travelled 
with  Paganini  and  was  a  consummate  violinist  himself. 
lie  was  a  short,  angry-looking,  stoutly-built  little  man. 
Genial  with  those  who  were  sympathetic  to  him,  and 
sharp,  savage,  and  sarcastic  with  others — he  made  many 
enemies,  and  was  unscrupulous  in  his  language.  I 
found  he  had  been  unlucky,  and  I  hardly  wonder  at  it  ; 
for  a  man  more  uncertain,  unstable,  and  capricious  in 
temper  I  never  met — but  he  was  an  exquisite  player. 
His  fingers  were  thick  and  plump,  his  hand  was  fat  and 
short,  not  unlike  that  of  poor  Jaell,  the  late  pianist. 
How  he  could  stop  his  intervals  in  tune  and  execute 
passages  of  exceeding  delicacy  with  such  hands  was  a 
mystery  to  me  ;  but  Jaell  did  things  even  more  amazing 
with  his — stretching  the  most  impossible  intervals,  and 
bowling  his  fat  hands  up  and  down  the  key-board  like  a 
couple  of  galvanized  balls. 

I  was  at  this  time  about  sixteen,  and  a  member  of  the 
Brighton  Symphony  Society.  "We  played  the  sympho- 
nies of  the  old  masters  to  not  very  critical  audiences  in  the 
Pavilion,  and  I  have  also  played  in  the  Brighton  Town 
Hall.  It  was  at  these  meetings  I  first  fell  in  with  Oury. 

I  noticed  a  little  group  in  the  anteroom  on  one  of  the 
rehearsal  nights  ;  they  were  chattering  round  a  thickset, 
crotchety-looking  little  man  and  trying  to  persuade  him 
to  do  something.  He  held  his  fiddle,  but  would  not 
easily  yield  to  their  entreaties.  They  were  asking  him 
to  play.  At  last  he  raised  his  Cremona  to  his  chin  and 
began  to  improvise.  What  fancy  and  delicacy  and  ex- 
ecution !  what  refinement  !  His  peculiar  gift  lay  not 
only  in  a  full  round  tone,  but  in  the  musical  "  embroid- 


OUUY. 


eries"  —  the  long  flourishes,  the  torrents  of  multitudi- 
nous notes  ranging  all  over  the  instrument.  I  can  liken 
those  astonishing  violin  passages  to  nothing  but  the  elab- 
orate embroidery  of  little  notes  which  in  Chopin's  music 
are  spangled  in  tiny  type  all  round  the  subject,  which  is 
in  large  type.  When  Oury  was  in  good  humor  he 
would  gratify  us  in  this  way,  and  then  stop  abruptly, 
and  nothing  after  that  would  induce  him  to  play  another 
note.  He  had  the  line  large  style  of  the  De  Beriot 
school,  combined  with  a  dash  of  the  brilliant  and 
romantic  Paganini,  and  the  most  exquisite  taste  of  his 
own.  In  those  days  De  Beriot's  music  reigned  supreme 
in  the  concert-room  until  the  appearance  of  Paganini. 
It  had  not  yet  gone  out  of  fashion,  and  I  remember 
hearing  Oury  play  De  Beriot's  showy  first  concerto  with 
a  full  orchestra,  at  the  Pavilion,  in  a  way  which  reminded 
me  of  some  conqueror  traversing  a  battle  field  ;  the  en- 
thusiasm he  aroused  was  quite  remarkable,  in  that  lan- 
guid and  ignorant  crowd  of  loitering  triflers.  He  cer- 
tainly brought  the  house  down.  He  was  a  great  player, 
though  past  his  prime,  and  he  knew  how  to  score  point 
after  point  without  ever  sacrificing  his  musical  honor  by 
stooping  to  clap-trap. 

From  Oury  I  received,  between  the  ages  of  fifteen 
and  seventeen,  my  last  definite  violin  instruction. 
After  that  I  studied  for  myself  and  heard  assiduously 
the  best  players,  but  I  wTas  never  taught  anything. 
Oury  had  been  trained  himself  in  the  old  and  new 
schools  of  Rode,  Bail  lot,  and  De  Beriot,  and  only 
grafted  on  the  sensational  discoveries,  methods,  and 
tricks  of  Paganini,  Ernst,  and  Sivori.  But  he  was  art- 
ist enough  to  absorb  without  corruption  and  appropriate 
without  mimicry.  He  always  treated  me  with  a  semi- 
humorous,  though  kindly,  indulgence.  He  was  ex- 


22  MY    MUSICAL   MEMOKIES. 

tremely  impatient,  and  got  quite  bitter  and  angry  with 
my  ways  ;  stormed  at  my  self-will  ;  said  I  Lad  such  a 
terrible  second  finger  that  he  believed  the  devil  was  in 
it.  1  had  a  habit  of  playing  whole  tunes  with  my  second 
finger  on  the  fourth  string.  It  seemed  more  muscular 
than  the  rest,  and  from  this  point  of  view  quite  upset 
the  equilibrium  of  the  hand.  He  had  a  habit  of  sighing 
deeply  over  the  lessons. 

"  You  should  have  been  in  the  profession.  What's 
the  use  of  teaching  you  ?  Bah  !  you  will  never  do  any- 
thing. I  shall  teach  you  no  more.' ' 

Then  he  would  listen,  as  I  played  some  bravura  pas- 
sage in  my  own  way,  half -amused,  half-surprised,  half- 
satirical  ;  my  method  was  clearly  wrong,  but  how  had  I 
got  through  the  passage  at  all  ?  Then  taking  the  violin 
from  me  he  would  play  it  himself,  without  explanation, 
and  then  play  on  and  say  : 

"  Listen  to  me  ;  that  is  your  best  lesson,  you  rascal  ! 
I  believe  you  never  practise  at  all.  Nature  has  given 
you  too  much  facility.  Your  playing  will  never  be 
worth  anything.  You  do  not  deserve  the  gifts  God  has 
given  you." 

At  times  poor  Oury  took  quite  a  serious  and  despond- 
ing view  of  me.  He  would  sit  long  over  his  hour, 
playing  away  and  playing  to  me,  telling  me  stories  about 
Paganini's  loosening  the  horsehair  of  his  bow  and  pass- 
ing the  whole  violin  between  the  stick  and  the  horse- 
hair, thus  allowing  the  loosened  horsehair  to  scrape  all 
four  strings  together,  and  producing  the  effect  of  a 
quartet.  He  described  the  great  magician's  playing  of 
harmonic  passages,  and  showed  me  how  it  was  done,  and 
told  me  how  the  fiddlers  when  Paganini  played  sat  open- 
mouthed,  unable  to  make  out  how  he  got  at  all  his  con- 
secutive harmonics. 


OURY'S  METHOD.  23 

In  hislighterrnoods  lie  taught  metlie  farmyard  on  tlie 
violin  ;  how  to  make  the  donkey  bray,  the  hen  chuckle, 
the  cuckoo  sing,  the  cow  moo.  He  taught  me  Paga- 
nini's  "  Carnival  de  Yenise"  variations  ;  some  of  them 
— especially  the  canary  variation — so  absurdly  easy  to 
any  fingers  at  home  on  the  violin,  yet  apparently  so 
miraculous  to  the  uninitiated.  But  it  remained  his  bit- 
terest reflection  that  amateur  I  was,  and  amateur  I  was 
destined  to  be  ;  otherwise,  I  believe,  I  should  have  been 
a  pupil  after  his  heart,  for  he  spent  hour  after  hour  with 
me,  and  never  seemed  to  reckon  his  time  or  his  toil  by 
money. 

If  I  did  not  acquire  the  right  method,  it  was  not. 
Oury's  fault.  He  taught  me  how  to  hold  the  violin  ; 
to  spread  my  fingers  instead  of  crumpling  up  those  I  was 
not  using  ;  to  bow  without  sawing  round  my  shoulder. 

"  In  position,"  lie  used  often  to  say,  "  nothing  is 
right  unless  all  is  right.  Hold  your  wrist  right,  the 
bow  must  go  right  ;  hold  your  fiddle  well  up,  or  you 
cannot  get  the  tone."  , 

Above  all,  he  taught  me  how  to  whip  instead  of 
scraping  the  sound  out.  This  springing,  elastic  bowing 
he  contrasted  with  the  grinding  of  badly-taught  fiddlers, 
who  checked  the  vibration.  Some  violinists  of  repute 
have  been  ll  grinolers,"  but  I  could  never  bear  to  listen 
to  them.  Oury  poisoned  me  early  against  the  grinders, 
and  all  short  of  the  men  of  perfect  method.  He  in- 
stilled into  me  principles  rather  than  rules.  I  caught 
from  him  what  I  was  to  do,  and  how  I  was  to  do  it. 
He  did  not  lecture  at  me  like  some  masters  ;  he  took  the 
violin  out  of  my  hands  without  speaking,  or  with  merely 
an  impatient  expletive,  of  which,  I  regret  to  say,  he  was 
rather  too  free,  and  played  the  passage  for  me.  His  ex- 
planations I  might  have  forgotten  ;  this  I  could  never 


^4  MY    MUSICAL    MEM01UES. 

forget,  and    I  could  tell  at   once  whether  what    I   did 

O        " 

sounded  like  what  he  did. 

Ouiy  taught  me  the  secret  of  cantabile  playing  on  the 
violin — how  to  treat  a  simple  melody  with  rare  phrasing, 
until  it  was  transfigured  by  the  mood  of  the  player.  He 
taught  me  Rode's  Air  in  G — that  beautiful  melody 
which  has  been,  with  its  well-known  variations,  \\\Q  piece 
d&  resistance  of  so  many  generations  of  violinists  and 
soprani.  I  was  drilled  in  every  note,  the  bowing  was 
rigidly  fixed  for  me,  the  whole  piece  was  marked,  bar  by 
bar,  with  slur,  p  and  /",  roll  and  crescendo.  I  was  not 
allowed  to  depart  a  hair's  breadth  from  rule.  When  I 
could  do  this  easily  and  accurately,  Oury  surprised  me 
one  day  by  saying, 

"  Now  you  can  play  it  as  you  like,  you  need  not  at- 
tend to  a  single  mark  !" 

"How  so?"  I  said. 

"  Don't  you  see/'  he  said,  "  the  marks  don't  signify  : 
that  is  only  one  way  of  playing  it.  If  you  have  any 
music  in  you,  you  can  play  it  in  a  dozen  other  ways. 
Now,  I  will  make  it  equally  good,"  and  he  took  the 
violin  and  played  it  through,  reversing  as  nearly  as  pos- 
sible all  the  p"*s  and /"'«?,  "  bowing"  the  slur  and  slurring 
the  "bow,"  and  it  sounded  just  as  well.  I  never  for- 
got that  lesson.  At  other  times  Oury  was  most  punctil- 
ious about  what  he  called  ' '  correct' '  bowing.  He 
complained  of  my  habit  of  beginning  a  forte  "  attaque" 
with  an  \ip  bow — an  unusual  perversity,  I  admit — but  I 
replied,  in  my  conceit,  I  had  observed  Richard  Bla- 
grove  do  the  same  thing.  Oury  said,  as  sharply  as 
wisely,  "When  you  play  like  Blagrove,  you  may  do  it 
too  ;  until  then,  oblige  me,  sir,  by  minding  your  up  and 
down  bow,  or  I  cease  to  be  your  violin  tutor." 

I  used  about  this  time  to  hear  some  very  good  quartet- 


MY   VIOLIN.  25 

playing  at  Captain  Xewberry's,  Brunswick  Square.  The 
captain  Lad  some  fine  violins  ;  one  I  specially  coveted  ; 
he  held  it  to  be  a  genuine  Stradivarius  ;  it  was  labelled 
1712,  quite  in  the  finest  period,  and  of  the  grand  pattern 
— the  back  a  magnificently  ribbed  slice  of  maple  in  one 
piece  ;  the  front  hardly  so  fine  ;  the  head  strong,  though 
not  so  fine  as  I  have  seen — more  like  a  Bergonzi  ;  but  the 
fiddle  itself  could  never  be  mistaken  for  a  Bergonzi.  It 
had  a  tone  like  a  trumpet  on  the  fourth  string  ;  the 
third  was  full,  but  the  second  puzzled  me  for  years,  it 
being  weak  by  comparison  ;  but  the  violin  was  petulant, 
and  after  having  it  in  my  possession  for  thirty  years,  I 
know  what  to  do  with  it  if  I  can  ever  again  take  the 
time  and  trouble  to  bring  it  into  perfect  order  and  keep 
it  so,  as  it  was  once  my  pride  to  do. 

Ou  Captain  dewberry's  death  that  fiddle  was  sent  me 
by  his  widow,  who  did  not  survive  him  long.  She  said 
she  believed  it  was  his  wish. 

This  violin  was  my  faithful  companion  for  years.  I 
now  look  at  it  under  a  glass  case  occasionally,  where  it 
lies  unstrung  from  one  end  of  the  year  to  the  other.  It 
belonged  to  the  captain's  uncle  ;  he  had  set  his  heart  on 
it,  and  having  a  very  fine  pair  of  carriage  horses,  for 
which  he  had  given  £180,  he  one  day  made  them  over 
to  his  uncle  and  obtained  the  Strad.  in  exchange.  This 
was  the  last  price  paid  for  my  violin,  some  fifty  years 
ago.  It  came  into  the  hands  of  dewberry's  relative 
early  in  the  present  century — how,  I  know  not.  Many 
years  ago  I  took  this  fiddle  down  to  Bath  and  played  it  a 
good  deal  there  in  a  band  conducted  by  the  well-known 
Mr.  Salmon.  I  found  he  recognized  it  immediately.  I 
there  made  acquaintance  with  the  score  of  Mendels- 
sohn's "  Athalie,"  playing  it  in  the  orchestra.  I  studied 
the  Scotch  and  Italian  symphonies  in  the  same  way. 


26  ilY   MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

No- amateur  should  omit  an  opportunity  of  orchestral 

or  chorus  work.  In  this  way  you  got  a  more  living  ac- 
quaintance with  the  internal  structure  of  the  great 
masterpieces  than  in  any  other.  I  first  made  acquaint- 
ance with  the  "  Elijah"  and  "  St.  Paul  "  in  this  way. 
What  writing  for  the  violin  there  is  in  the  chorus  parts  ! 
what  telling  passages  are  those  in  "  Be  not  afraid," 
where  the  first  violins  lift  the  phrases,  rise  after  rise, 
until  the  shrill  climax  is  reached  and  the  aspiring  pas- 
sage is  closed  with  a  long  drawn-out^1. 

When  the  violins  pealed  louder  and  louder,  mounting 
upward,  it  was  always  a  delight  to  me  to  hear  my  own 
powerful  first  string  thrilling  through  all  the  others. 
The  conductor  used  to  know  this  passage  and  the  way  in 
which  it  told  on  my  Strad.,  and  invariably  gave  me  a 
knowing  nod  as  he  heard  my  violin  at  the  first  fiddle- 
desk  through  all  the  others.  I  may  add  that,  as  a  rule, 
when  any  particular  violin  in  a  band  is  heard  above  the 
rest,  it  usually  belongs  to  a  bungler  ;  but  there  are  pas- 
sages where  the  leading  violins  have  carte  Blanche  to  play 
up,  and  then,  if  you  can,  you  may  be  allowed  to  sing 
through  the  rest  ;  and,  if  this  bo  anywhere  allowable,  it 
is  of  course  so  at  the  first  violin  desk. 

Most  boys  find  it  difficult  to  keep  up  their  music  at 
school  ;  with  me  it  was  the  reverse  ;  my  ill  health  was 
the  making  of  my  music.  I  had  been  an  invalid  on 
and  off  up  to  the  age  of  seventeen.  I  remember  Sir 
Benjamin  Brodie,  the  great  doctor,  a  thin,  wizen,  little 
old  man,  coming  and  staring  at  me,  about  the  year  18*18, 
at  No.  2  Spanish  Place,  my  grandfather's  house  in 
London.  I  was  then  suffering  from  hip  disease.  They 
asked  him  whether  I  should  be  taken  to  Brighton.  He 
mumbled  something  to  himself  and  turned  away  to  speak 
to  my  father  aside.  I  merely  noticed  an  expression  of 


FRESHWATER,    ISLE    OF    WIGHT.  27 

great  pain  and  anxiety  on  my  father's  face  as  lie  listened. 
Afterward  I  knew  the  great  doctor  had  said  it  did  not 
matter  where  I  went,  for  in  any  case  I  could  not  live. 
He  thought  it  was  a  question  of  weeks.  He  little  knew 
how  much  it  would  take  to  kill  me.  People  are  born 
long-lived.  It  runs  in  families.  It  has  little  to  do  with 
health  and  disease.  If  you  are  long-lived  you  will 
weather  disease,  and  if  you  are  short-lived  you  will 
drop  suddenly  in  full  health,  or  be  blown  out  like  a 
candle,  with  a  whiff  of  fever  or  bronchitis.  Sir  Ben- 
jamin pocketed  his  fee  and  departed.  In  great  perplex- 
ity what  to  do,  we  cast  lots ;  I  think  it  was  at  my  sug- 
gestion. The  lot  came  out  in  favor  of  Brighton.  To 
Brighton  I  was  taken,  apparently  in  a  dying  state,  bat 
at  my  grandmother's  house  in  Brunswick  Square  I 
began  rapidly  to  amend. 

My  violin  was  my  solace,  when  I  grew  strong  enough 
to  hold  it  again.  The  time  that  should  have  been  spent 
upon  mathematics,  Latin,  and  Greek  was  spent  in  my 
case  upon  French,  German,  and  music — 1  may  add 
novels,  for  between  the  ages  of  twelve  and  sixteen  I  read 
all  Bulwer,  Walter  Scott,  G.  P.  R.  James,  Fenirnore 
Cooper,  and,  in  certain  visits  to  Bath  and  Bognor,  I  took 
care  to  exhaust  the  ancient  stores  of  fiction  which  1 
found  secreted  in  the  antiquated  lending  libraries  of 
those  privileged  resorts. 

When  I  was  sixteen  it  became  evident  that  I  was  not 
going  to  die  ;  my  health  was  still  feeble,  and  my  gen- 
eral education  defective.  I  was  sent  to  an  excellent 
tutor  at  the  Isle  of  Wight,  the  Rev.  John  Bicknell,  now 
incumbent  of  St.  Saviour's,  Highbury.  That  good  man 
never  overcame  my  dislike  to  mathematics,  but  he  got 
me  on  in  Latin,  and  he  was  kind  enough  to  tolerate  my 
violin. 


28  MY    MUSICAL    MEMORIES. 

I  could  no  longer  play  cricket,  or  climb  trees,  the 
chief  delights  of  my  earlier  days — nor  could  I  take  long 
walks  with  the  boys.  I  was  left  entirely  alone  in  play 
hours — i.e.,  almost  every  afternoon.  1  think  I  was  per- 
fectly happy  by  myself.  And  there  was  such  utter 
solitude  for  me,  in  the  silent  lanes,  the  summer  wood- 
lands, and  by  the  lovely  sea-shore,  that — well — I  had 
plenty  of  time  to  think.  I  sat  on  stiles  and  thought  ;  I 
tasted  almost  every  kind  of  berry  and  herb  that  grew  i:i 
the  hedges.  I  watched  the  butterflies  and  the  teeming 
insect  life,  and  I  would  lie  down  in  the  woody  recesses 
and  leafy  coverts  like  one  dead,  until  the  birds,  the  rab- 
bits, and  even  the  weasels  and  stoats  came  close  enough 
for  me  to  see  their  exquisitely  clean  soft  fur,  bright 
eyes,  or  radiant  plumage.  I  have  surprised  a  wild  hawk 
on  her  nest  in  the  gorse,  and  she  has  never  moved. 

About  this  time  I  wrote  quantities  of  the  most  dismal 
poetry,  which  appeared  at  intervals  in  the  columns  of 
the  Brighton  papers.  It  was  naturally  a  mixture  of 
Bryant  and  Longfellow  ;  later  on  it  became  a  jumble  of 
Tennyson  and  Browning — but  such  matters  belong  more 
to  literature  than  to  music. 

Oury  had  already  begun  to  direct  my  violin  studies. 
I  had  ample  time  at  school  in  the  Isle  of  Wight  for 
practising,  and  I  practised  steadily  nearly  every  day.  I 
had  a  faculty  for  practising.  1  knew  what  to  do,  and  I 
did  it.  I  always  remembered  what  Joachim  had  said 
about  tiring  out  the  hand  ;  and  with  some  abominable 
torture  passages,  invented  for  me  by  that  morose  Pole, 
Lapinski,  1  took  a  vicious  pleasure  in  making  my  fingers 
ache,  and  an  intense  delight  in  discovering  the  magical 
effects  of  the  torture  upon  my  execution. 

I  put  my  chief  trust  in  Kreutzer's  exercises — admira- 
ble in  invention  and  most  attractive  as  musical  studies — 


AT   FARUINGFORD.  29 

the  more  difficult  ones  in  chords  being  little  violin  solos 
in  themselves.  I  perfected  myself  in  certain  solos  at 
this  time.  1  had  no  one  to  play  my  accompaniments, 
and  no  one  cared  to  hear  me  play  at  school,  except  some 
of  the  boys  who  liked  to  hear  me  imitate  the  donkey  and 
give  the  farmyard  entertainment — including  the  groans 
of  a  chronic  invalid  and  a  great  fight  of  cats  on  the  roof 
— which  never  failed  to  be  greeted  with  rapturous  ap- 
plause. 

I  said  no  one  cared  to  hear  me  play  at  Freshwater. 
Yes,  some  people  did.  One  autumn  while  I  was  at 
Freshwater,  an  old  house,  Farringford,  with  a  rambling 
garden  at  the  back  of  the  downs,  was  let  to  Baron  A. — 
an  eminent  light  of  the  Bench — and  his  charming 
family.  I  forget  how  they  discovered  my  existence,  but 
I  dare  say  Lady  A.  and  the  young  ladies  found  the  place 
rather  dull,  and  they  were  not  the  people  to  neglect 
their  opportunities. 

I  received  an  invitation  to  dinner  ;  my  violin  was  also 
asked.  I  did  not  reply  like  Sivori  when  similarly  in- 
vited to  bring  his  violin  with  him  :  "  Merci  !  mon 
violonne  ne  dine  pas  !"  I  saw  to  my  strings  and  screws, 
put  together  my  solos,  and  went. 

Soon  after  the  A.'s  left  Farringford  it  was  taken  by 
the  Poet  Laureate.  At  that  time  I  was  rapidly  out- 
growing Longfellow,  and  my  enthusiasm  for  Mr.  Tenny- 
son amounted  to  a  mania  :  he  was  to  me  in  poetry  what 
Mendelssohn  was  in  music.  I  can  now  place  him.  I 
can  now  see  how  great  he  is.  I  can  now  understand  his 
relation  to  other  poets.  Then  I  could  not.  He  con- 
fused and  dazzled  me.  He  took  possession  of  my  im- 
agination. He  taught  me  to  see  and  to  feel  for  the  first 
time  the  heights  and  depths  of  life  ;  to  discern  dimly 
what  I  could  then  have  had  little  knowledge  of — "  The 


30  MY   MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

world  with  all  its  lights  and  shadows,  all  the  wealth  and 
all  the  woe. ' '  In  fact,  Tennyson  was  then  doing  for  the 
rising  generation  of  that  age  what  Byron  and  Shelley, 
Wordsworth  and  Coleridge,  had  done  for  theirs  ;  only  he 
united  in  himself  more  representative  qualities  than  any 
one  of  the  poets  who  preceded  him,  and  in  this  respect  he 
seems  to  me  still  a  greater  poet,  and  certainly  as  subtle  a 
thinker,  as  any  one  of  them,  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge 
not  excepted. 

All  this  is  an  after-thought.  Then  I  did  not  analyze 
or  compare.  The  Brighton  papers  received  elaborate 
prose  effusions  from,  my  pen  upon  the  subject,  at  the 
time,  of  a  frothy  and  rhetorical  character.  Sometimes  I 
look  at  them  in  my  old  scrap-books,  and  marvel  at  the 
bombast,  inflation,  and  prodigious  inanity  of  the  mat- 
ter and  the  style.  No  doubt  I  was  not  quite  right  in 
my  head  about  Tennyson,  and  this  accounts  for  my 
wending  my  steps  toward  Farringford  one  autumn 
afternoon,  soon  after  he  had  come  there.  The  poet 
never  went  to  church,  so  the  poet  could  never  be  seen. 
The  man  who,  in  the  "  In  Memoriam,"  had  recently 
reformulated  the  religion  of  the  nineteenth  *  century, 
might,  one  would  have  thought,  be  excused  the  dismal 
routine  that  went  on  at  the  parish  church,  and  the  patris- 
tic theology  doled  out  by  the  worthy  rector.  But  no  ! 
Mr.  Tennyson's  soul  was  freely  despaired  of  in  the 
neighborhood,  and  many  of  the  people  about  Freshwater 
would  have  been  "  very  faithful"  with  him  if  they  could 
only  have  got  at  him — but  they  could  not  get  at  him. 
Under  these  circumstances  I  got  at  him. 

I  suppose  the  continued  play  of  one  idea  upon  my 
brain  was  too  much  for  me.  To  live  so  close  to  the  man 
who  filled  the  whole  of  my  poetic  and  imaginative  hori- 
zon, without  ever  seeing  him,  was  more  than  I  could  bear. 


VISIT   TO   TEXXYSOX    IX    1854.  31 

I  walked  over  the  neglected  grass-grown  gravel  between 
the  tall  "trees  yellowing  in  the  autumn,  and  up  to  the 
glass-panelled  doors,  as  bold  as  fate. 

"Mr.  Tennyson,"  said  the  maid,  "sees  no  one."  I 
was  aware  of  that.  Was  Mrs.  Tennyson  at  home  ? 
Perhaps  she  would  see  me  ?  The  servant  looked  dubi- 
ous. I  was  a  shabby -looking  student,  sure  enough,  but 
there  was  something  about  me  which  could  not  be  said 
nay  !  I  evidently  meant  to  get  in,  and  in  I  got. 

In  another  moment  I  found  myself  in  the  drawing- 
room  lately  tenanted  by  the  Baron  and  Lady  A'. 

There  was  the  arm-chair  where  Lady  A.  had  sat  re- 
clining, with  her  head  resting  on  a  little  cushion,  as  she 
sang  "  Auld  Robin  Gray." 

There  was  the  piano  beside  which  Miss  M.  stood  and 
sang  very  shyly  and  under  protest  in  her  simple  white 
muslin  dress  and  a  rose  in  her  hair  ;  there — but  the  door 
opened,  and  a  quiet,  gentle  lady  appeared,  and  bowed 
silently  to  me.  I  had  to  begin  then. 

I  had  no  excuse  to  make,,  and  so  I  offered  no  apology. 
I  had  called  desiring  to  see  Mr.  Tennyson,  that  was  all. 

The  lady  looked  surprised,  and  sat  clown  by  a  little 
work-table  with  a  little  work-basket  on  it.  She  asked 
me  very  kindly  to  sit  down  too.  So  I  sat  down. 
What  next  ?  Now  I  grew  clumsy  with  a  vengeance.  All 
my  wits  forsook  me.  I  looked  out  at  the  tangled 
garden — everything  was  allowed  to  grow  wild.  I  had 
to  say  something.  I  looked  at  the  kind  lady,  who  had 
already  taken  up  her  work  and  begun  plying  her  needle. 
I  said  that  my  admiration  for  Mr.  Tennyson's  poems 
was  so  great  that,  as  I  was  living  in  the  neighborhood,  I 
had  called  with  an  earnest  desire  to  see  him.  I  then 
began  to  repeat  that  I  considered  his  poems  so  exquisite 
that — a  smile  was  on  the  kind  lady's  face  as  she  listened 


32  MY   MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

for  the  thousand  and  first  time  to  such  large  and  general 
praises  of  the  Laureate's  genius.  But  the  smfte  some- 
how paralyzed  me.  She  evidently  considered  me  a 
harmless  lunatic,  not  an  impertinent  intruder. 

This  was  fortunate,  for  had  I  been  summarily  shown 
the  door  I  should  not  have  been  surprised.  I  should  not 
have  gone,  for  I  was  desperate  and  prepared  to  show 
fight,  and  be'  kicked  out,  if  needful,  by  the  Laureate 
alone  ;  but  the  Fates  were  propitious. 

Said  Mrs.  Tennyson,  "  My  husband  is  always  very 
busy,  and  I  do  not  at  all  think  it  likely  he  can  gee  you." 

"  Do  you  think  he  would  if  you  ask  him  ?"  I  stam- 
mered out. 

Said  Mrs.  Tennyson,  a  little  taken  aback,  "  I  don't 
know." 

"  Then,"  said  I,  pursuing  my  advantage  with,  if 
any  calm  at  all,  the  calmness  of  a  calm  despair,  "  would 
you  object  to  asking  him  to  see  me,  if  only  for  an 
instant  ?' ' 

What  passed  in  that  indulgent  lady's  mind  I  shall 
never  know  ;  the  uppermost  thought  was  probably  not 
nattering  to  me,  and  her  chief  desire  was,  no  doubt,  to 
get  rid  of  me  : — He  won' t  go  till  he  has  seen  my  hus- 
band— he  ought  never  to  have  got  in  ;  but  as  he  is  here, 
I'll  manage  it  and  have  done  with  him.  Or  she  might 
have  reflected  thus  :  The  poor  fellow  is  not  right  in  his 
head  ;  it  would  be  a  charity  to  meet  him  half-way,  and 
not  much  trouble. 

At  any  rate  at  this  juncture  Mrs.  Tennyson  rose  and 
left  the  room.  She  was  gone  about  four  minutes  by  the 
clock.  It  seemed  to  me  four  hours.  What  I  went 
through  in  those  four  minutes  no  words  can  utter. 
"  Will  he  come  ?  I  almost  hope  he  won't,  ^he  won't 
come,  I  shall  have  done  all  I  could  to  see  him,  without 


VISIT  TO  TENNYSON   IX   1854.  33 

experiencing  a  shock  to  which  my  nervous  system  is 
quite  unequal."  At  that  moment,  indeed,  I  was  trem- 
bling with  excitement  from  top  to  toe.  I  thought  I 
would  try  and  recollect  some  of  his  own  sublime  verse  ; 
it  might  steady  me  a  little.  I  knew  volumes  of  it  by 
heart — couldn't  recollect  a  line  anywhere,  except — 

Wrinkled  ostler  grim  and  ihin, 

Here  is  custom  come  your  way, 
Take  my  brute  and  lead  him  in, 

Stuff  his  ribs  with  mouldy  hay. 

I  believe  I  was  muttering  this  mechanically  when  I 
heard  a  man's  voice  close  outside  the  door. 

"  Who  is  it  ?     Is  it  an  impostor  ?" 

Ah,  verily,  the  word  smote  me  to  the  heart.  What 
right  had  I  to  be  there?  Conscience  said,  "Thou  art 
the  man  !"  I  would  have  willingly  disappeared  into 
my  boots,  like  the  genie  in  the  fairy  tale.  "  O,  that 
this  too,  too  solid  flesh  would  melt  ;"  but  I  remained 
palpable  and  motionless — glued  to  the  spot. 

In  another  moment  the  door  opened.  The  man  whose 
voice  1  had  heard — in  other  words,  Mr.  Tennyson — 
entered. 

He  was  not  in  Court-dress  ;  he  had  not  a  laurel  wreath 
on  his  head,  nor  a  lily  in  his  hand — not  even  a  harp. 

It  was  in  the  days  when  he  shaved.  1  have  two  por- 
traits of  him  without  a  beard.  I  believe  they  are  very 
rare  now. 

I  thought  it  would  be  inappropriate  to  prostrate  my- 
self, so  I  remained  standing  and  stupefied.  He  advanced 
toward  me  and  shook  hands  without  cordiality.  Why 
should  he  be  cordial  ?  I  began  desperately  to  say  that  I 
had  the  greatest  admiration  for  his  poetry  ;  that  I  could 
not  bear  to  leave  the  island  without  seeing  him.  He 
Boon  stopped  me,  and  taking  a  card  of  Captain  Crozier's 


34  MY   MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

which  lay  on  the  table,  asked  me  if  I  knew  him.  I  said 
I  did,  and  described  his  house  and  grounds  in  the  neigh- 
borhood of  Freshwater. 

I  have  no  recollection  of  anything  else,  but  I  believe 

some  allusion  was  made  to  Baron  A ,  when  the 

poet  observed  abruptly,  "Now  I  must  go;  good- 
by  !"  and  he  went.  And  that  was  all  I  saw  of  Mr. 
Tennyson  for  nearly  thirty  years.  The  next  time  I  set 
eyes  on  him  was  one  Sunday  morning,  about  twenty- 
eight  years  later.  lie  came  up  the  side  aisle  of  my 
church,  St.  James,  Westmoreland  Street,  Marylebone, 
and,  with  his  son  Hallam,  sat  near  the  pulpit,  almost  in 
the  very  spot  that  had  been  pointed  out  to  me  when  I 
was  appointed  incumbent  as  the  pew  occupied  by 
Hallam  the  historian  and  his  son  Arthur — the  Arthur  of 
the  "  In  Memoriam." 

But  I  have  not  quite  done  with  the  interview  at  Fresh- 
water. As  the  poet  retired,  Mrs.  Tennyson  re-entered 
and  sat  down  again  at  her  work-table.  To  her  surprise, 
no  doubt,  I  also  sat  down.  The  fact  is,  I  had  crossed 
the  Rubicon,  and  was  now  in  a  state  of  considerable 
elation  and  perfectly  reckless.  I  thanked  her  effusively 
for  the  privilege  I  had  had — I  believe  I  made  several 
tender  and  irrelevant  inquiries  after  the  poet's  health, 
and  wound  up  with  earnestly  requesting  her  to  give  me 
a  bit  of  his  handwriting. 

This  was  perhaps  going  a  little  too  far — but  I  had  now 
nothing  to  lose — no  character  for  sanity,  or  prudence,  or 
propriety  ;  so  I  went  in  steadily  for  some  of  the  poet's 
handwriting. 

The  forbearing  lady  pointed  out  that  she  treasured  it 
so  much  herself  that  she  never  gave  it  away.  This 
would  not  do.  I  said  I  should  treasure  it  to  my  dying 
day,  any  little  scrap — by  which  I  suppose  I  meant  that  I 


MRS.    TEXXYSOX.  35 

did  not  require  the  whole  manuscript  of  "  Maud," 
which  the  poet  was  then  writing,  and  which  is  full  of 
Freshwater  scenery.  I  might  be  induced  to  leave  the 
house  with  something  short  of  that. 

"With  infinite  charity  and  without  a  sign  of  irritation 
she  at  last  drew  from  her  work-basket  an  envelope  in 
Mr.  Tennyson's  handwriting,  directed  to  herself,  and 
gave  it  to  me. 

It  was  not  his  signature,  but  it  contained  his  name. 

Then,  and  then  only,  I  rose.  I  returned  to  my  school, 
and  at  tea-time  related  to  my  tutor  with  some  little  pride 
and  self-conceit  the  nature  of  my  exploit  that  afternoon. 
He  administered  to  me  a  well-merited  rebuke,  which, 
as  it  came  after  my  indiscretion,  and  in  110  way  interfered 
with  my  long-coveted  joy,  I  took  patiently  enough  and 
with  all  meekness. 

There  is  a  strange  link  between  these  two  old  mem- 
ories of  Farringford,  Isle  of  Wight.  I  may  call  it  the 
link  of  a  common  oblivion.  Years  afterward  I  tried  to 
recall  to  Lady  A.,  who  frequented  my  church  in  her 
later  days,  the,  to  me,  delicious  evenings  I  had.  spent 
with  her  and  her  daughters  at  Farringford.  She  had 
not  the  slightest  recollection  of  ever  having  received  me 
there,  or  sung  to  me  there,  or  heard  me  play.  She  re- 
introduced  nio  to  her  eldest  daughter,  the  Marchioness 
of  S.,  then  Yiscountess  C.,  one  night  at  her  house  in 
Portland  Place,  who  was  probably  not  aware  of  ever 
having  seen  me  before,  although  I  remembered  her  well 
at  Farringford.  Years  afterward  I  tried  to  recall  to 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Tennyson  that  preposterous  visit  of  mine, 
which  I  have  detailed,  but  neither  of  them  could  recall 
it  in  the  slightest  degree. 

So  strange  is  it  that  events  which  upon  some  of  the 
actors  leave  such  an  indelible  impression  pass  entirely 


30  MY   MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

away  from  tlio  memories  of  the  others — and  what  a  ser- 
mon might  be.  preached  on  that  text  !  The  very  same 
scene  in  which  you  and  I  are  the  only  ones  concerned, 
is  nothing  to  you,  everything  to  me. 

0  ye  tidal  years  that  roll  aver  us  all — be  kind  !     Wash 
out  the  memory  of  our  pain  and  the  dark  blots  of  sin 
and  grief,  but  leave,  oh  leave  us  bright,  the  burnished 
gold  of  joy,  and  the  rainbow  colors  of  our  youth  ! 

1  have  been  a   martyr    to    bad    accompanists.      All 
young  ladies  think  they  can  accompany  themselves — so 
why  not  you  or  any  other  man  ?     The  truth  is  that  very 
few  ladies  can  accompany  at  all.     If  they  sing  they  will 
probably  try,  in  the  absence  of  any  musical  friend,  to 
make  shift  with  a  few  chords  in  order  that  the  assembly 
may  not  be  deprived  of  a  song.     But  also  if  they  sing 
they  wrill  probably  have  forgotten  the  little  they  once 
knew  about  pianoforte  playing.     To  accompany  yourself 
properly  you  must  do  it  with  ease  and  accuracy  :  nothing 
is  so  charming  and  nothing  is  so  rare. 

Singing  ladies,  especially  amateurs,  are  pitiably  un- 
scrupulous, and  moderately  unconscious  of  the  wild 
effect  produced  by  that  fitful  and  inaccurate  dabbling 
with  the  keyboard  which  they  palm  off  upon  their  lis- 
teners as  an  accompaniment.  Now  and  then  a  Scotch 
ballad  may  survive  such  treatment — a  Scotch  ballad 
seems  always  grateful  for  any  accompaniment  at  all ; 
but  to  attempt  Gounod  or  Schubert  in  tjris  style  is  con- 
duct indicative  of  a  weak  intellect  and  a  feeble  con- 
science. 

To  accompany  well  you  must  not  only  be  a  good 
musician,  but  you  must  be  mesmeric,  sympathetic,  intui- 
tive. You  must  know  what  I  want  before  I  tell  you  ; 
you  must  feel  which  way  rny  spirit  sets,  for  the  motions 


ACCOMPANISTS.  37 

of  the  soul  are  swift  as  an  angel's  flight.  I  cannot  pause 
in  those  quick  and  subtle  transitions  of  emotion,  fancy, 
passion,  to  tell  you  a  secret  ;  if  it  is  not  yours  already, 
you  are  unworthy  of  it.  What  !  when  I  had  played 
three  bars  thus,  you  could  not  guess  that  I  should  hurry 
the  fourth  and  droop  with  a  melodious  sigh  upon  the 
fifth  !  You  dared  to  strike  in  at  the  end  of  a  note 
which  my  intention  would  have  stretched  out  into  at 
least  another  semibreve  !  You  are  untrue  to  the  rhythm 
of  my  soul.  Get  up  from  the  piano,  my  conceited,  self- 
satisfied  young  lady.  Your  finishing  lessons  in  music 
can  do  nothing  for  you.  Your  case  is  hopeless.  You 
have  not  enough  music  in  you  to  know  that  you  are  a 
failure. 

But  you  may  be  even  a  good  musician  and  yet  not 
.be  able  to  accompany.  If  you  cannot,  be  passive  for 
a  while.  You  are  of  no  use  to  me.  You  want  to  take 
the  initiative  ;  you  must  always  be  creating  ;  you  think 
you  know  best ;  you  impose  your  "  reading  "  upon  me. 
What !  you  will  do  this  when  I  am  the  soloist  or  the 
singer  !  You  are  professional — 'tis  the  vice  of  profes- 
sionals— and  I  am  but  an  amateur.  No  matter;  if  I 
know  not  best,  that  is  my  affair  ;  for  better  for  worse 
you  have  to  follow  me,  or  you  will  mar  me.  The  art  of 
true  accompanying  lies  in  a  willing  self-immolation. 
An  excess  of  sensibility,  but  a  passive  excess.  Yet  must 
your  collaboration  be  strong.  You  must  not  desert  me 
or  fail  me  in  the  moment  of  my  need  or  expectancy. 
You  must  cover  me  with  thunder,  you  must  buoy  me  up 
as  a  bark  is  buoyed  up  on  the  bosom  of  a  great  flood. 
You  must  be  still  anon  and  wait,  dream  with  my  spirit, 
as  the  winds  that  droop  fitfully  when  the  sea  grows 
calm  and  the  white  sails  flap  idly,  sighing  for  the 
breeze.  I  sleep,  but  my  heart  waketh  !  Every  mood  of 


MY    MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

mine  must  be  thine  as  soon  as  it  is  mine,  and  when  all  is 
finished  my  soul  shall  bless  thee,  and  thou  too  shalt  feel 
a  deep  content. 

As  from  the  age  of  seven  I  have  always  played  the 
violin  more  or  less  publicly,  I  entered  upon  my  amateur 
career  at  Brio-hton  without  the  smallest  nervousness. 

o 

My  facility  was  very  great,  but  my  execution,  although 
showy  (and,  I  blush  to  add,  tricky),  was  never  as 
finished  as  I  could  have  desired.  My  tone,  however, 
was  considered  by  Oury  remarkable,  and  except  when 
drilling  me  with  a  purpose,  he  would  never  interfere 
with  my  reading  of  a  solo.  It  was  the  only  point  in 
which  he  gave  in  to  me. 

"  I  never  taught  you  that,"  he  would  say  sharply. 

"  Shall  I  alter  it  ?"  I  would  ask. 

"  No,  no,  let  it  alone  ;  follow  your  own  inspiration  ; 
you  must  do  as  you  will  ;  the  effect  is  good." 

Indeed  no  one  ever  taught  me  the  art  of  drawing  tears 
from  the  eyes  of  my  listeners.  Moments  came  to  me 
when  I  was  playing — I  seemed  far  away  from  the  world. 
I  was  not  scheming  for  effect — there  was  no  trick  about 
it.  I  could  give  no  reason  for  the  rail,  thej9,  thejPj?, 
they.  Something  in  my  soul  ordered  it  so,  and  my  fin- 
gers followed,  communicating  every  inner  vibration 
through  their  tips  to  the  vibrating  string  until  the 
mighty  heart  of  the  Cremona  pealed  out  like  a  clarion, 
or  whispered  tremblingly  in  response.  But  thoso 
moments  did  not  come  to  me  in  mixed,  buzzing  audi- 
ences ;  then  I  merely  waged  impatient  war  with  a  mob. 

They  came  in  still  rooms  where  a  few  were  met,  and 
the  lights  were  low,  and  the  windows  open  toward  the  sea. 

They  came  in  brilliantly  lighted  halls,  what  time  I  had 
full  command  from  some  platform  of  an  attentive  crowd 
gathered  to  listen,  not  to  chatter. 


DR.    WHEWELL.  39 

They  came  when,  some  one  or  other  sat  and  played 
with  me,  whose  spirit-pulses  rose  and  fell  with  mine — 
in  a  world  of  sound  where  the  morning  stars  seemed 
always  singing  together. 

I  was  such  a  thorn  in  the  side  of  my  accompanists 
that  at  last  they  came  to  have  a  wholesome  dread  of  me. 
In  this  way  I  often  was  rid  of  playing  at  houses  where 
people  asked  me  to  bring  my  violin  impromptu,  because 
I  happened  to  be  the  fashion. 

I  went  up  to  Trinity  College  in  1856.  I  was  com- 
pletely alone.  I  had  an  introduction  to  Dr.  "VVhewell, 
the  Master  of  Trinity.  Soon  after  passing  my  entrance 
examination,  I  was  summoned  into  the  great  man's  pres- 
ence. The  Master  questioned  me  as  to  my  aims  and 
ambitions.  I  had  none — I  told  him  so  very  simply  :  I 
played  the  fiddle.  lie  seemed  surprised  ;  but  from  the 
first  moment  of  seeing  him  I  took  a  liking  to  him,  and  I 
believe  he  did  to  me. 

When  he  married,  the  Master  did  a  very  graceful 
thing.  He  sent  for  me  one  morning,  brought  Lady 
Affleck  into  the  drawing-room,  and  said  in  his  bluff  way, 
'*  Mr.  Haweis,  I  wish  you  to  know  Lady  Affleck,  my 
wife.  She  is  musical  ;  she  wishes  to  hear  your  violin." 
The  Master  then  left  me  with  her,  and  she  induced  me  to 
arrange  to  come  and  play  at  the  Lodge  on  the  following 
night  at  a  great  party.  I  was  to  bring  my  own  accom- 
panist. I  had  played  at  Dr.  Whe well's  before  that 
night,  but  that  night  the  Master  paid  me  special  atten- 
tion. It  was  part  of  his  greatness  and  of  his  true  humil- 
ity to  recognize  any  sort  of  merit,  even  when  most 
different  in  kind  from  his  own. 

"Whewell's  ability  was  of  a  truly  cosmic  and  universal 
character,  but  nature  had  denied  him  one  gift — the  gift 
of  music.  lie  always  beat  time  in  chapel,  and  gener- 


40  MY   MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

ally  sang  atrociously  out  of  tune.  I  do  not  think  he  had 
any  ear  ;  music  to  him  was  something  marvellous  and 
fascinating  ;  he  could  talk  learnedly  on  music,  admire 
music,  go  to  concerts,  have  music  at  his  house,  worry 
over  it,  insist  upon  silence  when  it  was  going  on  ;  and 
yet  I  knew,  and  he  knew  that  I  knew,  that  he  knew 
nothing  about  it.  It  was  a  closed  world  to  him,  a  riddle, 
yet  one  he  was  incessantly  bent  upon  solving  ;  and  he  felt 
that  1  had  the  key  to  it  and  he  had  not. 

On  that  night  I  played  Ernst's  "  Elegie,"  not  quite 
so  hackneyed  then  as  it  is  now,  and  some  other  occa- 
sional pieces  by  Ernst,  in  which  I  gave  the  full  rein  to 
my  fancy.  The  Master  left  his  company,  and  taking  a 
chair  in  front  of  where  I  stood,  remained  in  absorbed 
meditation  during  the  performance. 

I  was  naturally  a  little  elated  at  this  mark  of  respect 
shown  to  an  unknown  freshman  in  the  presence  of  so 
many  "  Heads"  of  Houses  and  the  elite  of  the  Univer- 
sity. I  played  my  best  and  indulged  rather  freely  in  a 
few  more  or  less  illegitimate  dodges,  which  I  thought 
calculated  to  bewilder  the  great  man.  I  was  rewarded, 
for  at  the  close  Dr.  Wheweli  laid  his  hand  upon  my 
arm.  "  Tell  me  one  thing  ;  how  do  you  produce  that 
rapid  passage,  ascending  and  descending  notes  of  fixed 
intervals?"  I  had  simply  as  a  tour  de  force  glided  my 
whole  hand  up  and  down  the  fourth  open  string,  taking, 
of  course,  the  complete  series  of  harmonics  up  and  down 
several  times  and  producing  thus  the  effect  of  a  rapid 
cadenza  with  the  utmost  ease  ;  the  trick  only  requires  a 
certain  lightness  of  touch,  and  a  knowledge  of  where 
and  when  to  stop  with  effect.  I  replied  that  I  had  only 
used  the  series  of  open  harmonics  which  are  yielded,  ac- 
cording to  the  well-known  mathematical  law,  by  every 
stretched  string  when  the  vibration  is  interrupted  at  the 


WIIEWELL    AND    MUSIC.  41 

fixed  harmonic  nodes.  The  artistic  application  of  a  law 
which,  perhaps,  he  had  never  realized  but  in  theory, 
seemed  to  delight  him  intensely,  and  he  listened  whilst  1 
repeated  the  cadenza,  and  again  and  again  showed  him 
the  various  intervals  on  the  finger-board,  where  the 
open  harmonics  might  be  made  to  speak  ;  a  hair's- 
breadth  one  way  or  the  other  producing  a  horrid  scratch 
instead  of  the  sweet  flute-like  ring.  It  struck  him  as 
marvellous  how  a  violinist  could  hit  upon  the  various 
intervals  to  such  a  nicety,  as  to  evoke  the  harmonic 
notes.  I  replied  that  this  was  easy  enough  when  the 
hand  was  simply  swept  up  and  down  the  string  as  1  had 
done  ;  but  that  to  hit  upon  the  lesser  nodes  for  single 
harmonics  was  one  of  the  recognized  violin  difficulties. 
I  then  showed  him  a  series  of  stopped  harmonics,  and 
played,  much  to  his  surprise,  a  tune  in  stopped  harmon- 
ics. He  was  interested  to  hear  that  Paganini  had  been  the 
first  to  introduce  this  practice,  which  has  since  become 
common  property.  But  I  have  some  what  Anticipated. 

After  the  anxiety  of  my  entrance  examination  at 
Trinity  College,  which  I  passed  without  glory,  I  solaced 
my  loneliness  by  making  as  much  noise  as  I  ever  could 
on  my  violin.  My  mathematics  may  have  been  weak, 
and  my  classics  uncertain,  but  it  was  impossible  to  ig- 
nore my  existence.  I  had  not  been  up  a  fortnight 
when  the  president  of  the  Cambridge  University  Musical 
Society  called  upon  me.  He  believed  I  played  the  vio- 
lin. "  How  did  he  know  that  ?"  Tasked.  He  laughed 
out,  "Everybody  in  the  place  knows  it."  Then  and 
there  he  requested  me  to  join  the  Musical  Society,  and 
play  a  solo  at  the  next  concert.  I  readily  agreed,  and 
from  that  time  I  became  solo  violinist  at  the  Cambridge 
Musical  Society,  and  played  a  solo  at  nearly  every  con- 
cert in  the  Town  Hall  for  the  next  three  years. 


42  MY    MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

I  confess  to  some  nervousness  on  my  first  public  ap- 
pearance at  a  University  Concert.  It  was  a  grand  night. 
Sterndale  Bennett,  our  new  professor  of  music,  himself 
conducted  his  "  May  Queen,"  and  I  think  Mr.  Coleridge, 
an  enthusiastic  amateur  and  old  musical  star  at  the 
University,  since  very  well  known  in  London,  sang.  I 
had  selected  as  my  cheval  de  fiataille,  Rode's  air  in  G-  with 
variations,  and  to  my  own  surprise,  when  my  turn  came 
to  go  on,  I  was  quite  shaky.  The  hall  was  crammed, 
the  Master  of  Trinity  sat  in  the  front  row  with  other 
heads  of  colleges  and  their  families.  I  tuned  in  the 
anteroom.  Some  one  offered  me  a  glass  of  wine.  I  had 
never  resorted  to  stimulants  before  playing,  but  I  rashly 
drank  it  ;  it  was  in  my  head  at  once.  Sterndale  Bennett 
conducted  me  to  the  platform.  I  was  a  total  stranger  to 
the  company — a  freshman  in  my  second  month  only. 
My  fingers  felt  limp  and  unrestrained,  my  head  was  half 
swimming.  The  crowd  looked  like  a  mist.  I  played 
with  exaggerated  expression.  I  tore  the  passion  to  tat- 
ters. I  trampled  on  the  time.  I  felt  the  excess  of  sen- 
timent was  bad,  and  specially  abhorrent  to  Sterndalo 
Bennett,  who  followed  my  vagaries  like  a  lamb,  bless 
him  forever  ! 

But  the  thing  took.  The  style  was  new  ;  at  least  it 
was  unconventional  and  probably  daring,  for  I  really 
hardly  knew  what  I  was  about.  The  air  was  listened  to 
in  dead  silence,  half  out  of  curiosity  no  doubt  ;  but  a 
burst  of  applause  followed  the  last  die-away  notes.  I 
plunged  into  the  variations  ;  I  felt  my  execution  slovenly 
and  beneath  my  usual  mark  ;  but  I  was  more  than  once 
interrupted  by  applause,  and  at  the  close  of  the  next 
cantabile  movement  of  extreme  beauty,  which  I  played 
better — a  sort  of  meditation  on  the  original  air — the  en- 
thusiasm rose  to  fever  pitch  ;  men  stood  up  in  the  dis- 


OLD    YEXUA  :    A    STRANGE   VISITOR.  43 

tant  gallery  and  waved  their  caps,  and  I  remained  hold- 
ing my  violin,  unable  to  proceed  with  the  last  rapid 
variation.  When  silence  was  restored  I  played  this 
atrociously  ;  I  hardly  played  it  at  all ;  it  was  quite  wild. 
Sternclale  Bennett,  seeing  that  it  was  all  up  with  me  that 
night,  hurried  and  banged  it  through  anyhow  ;  but  the 
critical  faculty  of  the  room  was  gone — so  was  my  head. 
I  had  won  by  a  toss,  and  although  then,  and  often  after- 
ward, owing  to  neglect  of  practice,  I  was  frequently 
not  up  to  my  own  mark,  my  position  as  solo  violinist  at 
the  University  Concerts  was  never  disputed  up  to  the 
time  that  I  took  my  degree. 

One  day  as  I  was  sitting  in  my  arrn-chair  with  an  open 
book  upon  my  knee,  contemplating  vaguely  the  row  of 
china  musicians'  heads  on  little  brackets  over  my  man- 
telpiece, a  knock  came  at  the  door.  My  "  oak  was 
sported,"  and  I  accordingly  "  did  the  dead."  I  was  in 
no  mood  for  interruption.  In  front  of  me,  in  the  cen- 
tre of  my  china  row  of  busts — Handel,  Mozart,  Haydn, 
Chopin — stood  Mendelssohn's  bust,  raised  above  the  rest 
and  draped  with  black  velvet,  with  F.  M.  B.  in  gold  on 
the  velvet.  The  china  face  at  times,  as  the  light  caught 
the  shadows  about  the  delicate  mouth,  seemed  to  smile 
down  upon  me.  The  high  forehead  surrounded  by 
wavy  hair,  the  aquiline  nose "What  ?  more  knock- 
ings  !  I  rose  at  last,  and  opening  the  door  brusquely 
was  confronted  by  a  strange  figure  with  a  sort  of  wide 
plaid  waistcoat,  well-made  frock-coat,  heavily-dyed  thin 
whiskers,  and  dark  wig  (as  I  well  saw  when  the 
broad-brimmed  hat  was  off),  yellow  gloves,  and  patent 
boots.  Middle-aged  ?  ]^o — in  spite  of  the  wig  and 
showy  gct-up — old,  very  old,  but  oddly  vigorous,  in- 
clined to  embonpoint,  ruddy,  florid,  perhaps  choleric 
face,  marked  features  overspread  now  with  a  beaming 


44  Ml'   MUSICAL    MEMORIES. 

smile   and   a   knowing   twinkle   in   the   rather  rheumy 
eyes. 

I  never  saw  such  an  odd  man.  My  anger  evaporated. 
I  laughed  out  almost,  and  instinctively  extended  my 
hand  and  shook  that  of  the  irresistible  stranger  warmly, 
although  I  did  not  know  him  from  Adam. 

o 

"Beg  pardon,"  he  said,  "may  I  come  in?  I  tell 
you,  my  friend,  my  name  is  Yenua — never  heard  of  me 
— no  matter — old  Venua  knows  you  :  heard  you  play  at 
the  Town  Hall — got  the  stuff  in  you  ;  you  can  play. 
Old  Venua,  dey  say  to  me,  he  know  all  about  it — he  can 
tell  you  how  to  play.  Forty  year  ago  you  should  have 
heard  me  play  de  fiddle.  I  play  de  fiddle  now  ;  gif  me 
your  fiddle — vonderful  tone  your  fiddle — where  is  your 
fiddle  ?" 

All  this  was  uttered  without  a  pause,  very  rapidly. 

The  strange,  rambling,  stuttering,  energetic,  decided 
old  creature  had  now  rolled  into  my  room  ;  he  had  sat 
down  and  pulled  out  an  enormous  silk  pocket-handker- 
chief. Then  an  old  gold  snuff-box.  "  This  gif  me  by 
ze  Grand  Duke  of  Hesse  Darmstadt.  You  take  a 
pinch  ?  Oh  no  !  You  are  young  man.  You  know 
noding  of  snuff — bad  'abit— young  man,  bad  'abit  !  never 
you  take  snnff  !  Old  Yenua  can' t  get  on  widout  his  snuff. 
All  de  bigwigs  take  snuff  with  old  Yenua — but  where  is 
your  fiddle  ?  bring  him  out  I  say.  Vonderful  tone — let 
me  see  him. ' ' 

What  a  jargon  !  "Was  it  Italian,  French,  or  German- 
English  ?  1  could  never  make  out.  In  an  old  book, 
only  the  other  day,  I  met  with  a  short  biography  of  a 
certain  Venua,  violinist,  who  flourished  at  the  beginning 
of  this  century.  Old  Venua,  of  Cambridge,  was  un- 
doubtedly this  man.  He  was  very  long  past  his  prime 
and  utterly  forgotten.  I  brought  him  out  the  fiddle  ; 


TENUA'S  TALK.  45 

lie  put  it  to  bis  cliin  ;  in  a  moment  I  could  see  lie  had 
played — his  touch,  execution,  all  but  bis  intonation  were 
gone,  but  his  style  was  first-rate  and  his  expression  ad- 
mirable in  intention. 

From  that  day  I  and  old  Yenua  became  close  allies. 
He  used  to  ask  me  to  dine  with  him,  generally  on  Sun- 
day, and  his  ceaseless  flow  of  anecdote  and  dramatic 
style  of  conversation  amused  me  greatly. 

He  had  known  Paganini,  he  had  seen  Beethoven, 
he  had  chatted  with  Spohr,  he  remembered  the  first 
Napoleon.  He  mimicked  Haydn's  style  of  conversa- 
tion, violin  in  hand,  as  though  he  had  been  intimate 
with  him  too.  Yet  this  was  in  1859,  and  Haydn  died 
in  1809. 

"  Gif  me  a  sobjech,"  says  Haydn.  "  Zo  ! — here — 
Tra-la-doi-e-dee-dee,  etc.,  etc.  Zat  will  do,  mein 
freund.  Haydn — make  you  on  zat  sobjech — a  beautiful 
melody,  and  work  it  wonderful  ;  gif  you  him  a  start  off, 
he  do  all  the  rest.  No  quartet  like  the  Haydn  quartet, 
my  young  freund — he  is  the  great  master  of  the  string 
instrument — he  knows  the  just  combinazione — he  gif  all 
their  due.  Spohr  he  all  first  fiddle — he  make  all  de  rest 
lacqueys  to  first  fiddle.  Mendelssohn  he  make  an  or- 
chestra of  his  quartet.  Beethoven  vonderf ul  always. 
Mozart  he  learn  all  of  Haydn — he  come  after  him  and 
die  before  him.  He  never  write  quartet  better  zan  de 
Papa  Haydn — he  find  new  ideas  and  he  write  new  things 
— he  great  master  of  vat  you  call  de  form — of  his 
composition — but  in  de  string  quartet  Haydn  ze  great 
creator — a  Brince — a  real  Brince  and  founder  of  ze 
quartet  art  !" 

Yenua  loved  the  violin,  and  his  impromptu  lectures 
upon  it  taught  me  much — always  characteristic,  humor- 
ous, genial,  and  to  the  point. 


46  MY   MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

"  If  you  want  to  make  a  man  irritable,  discontented, 
restless,  miserable,  give  liim  a  violin." 

"Why?"  said  I. 

"Because,"  lie  replied — and  I  will  now  resume  to 
some  extent  the  use  of  my  own  language — "  the  violin  is 
the  most  exacting  and  inexorable  of  non-human  things. 
A  loose  joint  somewhere  and  he  goes  '  tubby '  (a  term 
used  to  express  a  dull  vibration),  a  worn  finger-board  and 
he  squeaks,  a  bridge  too  high  and  his  note  grows  hard 
and  bitter,  or  too  low  and  he  whizzes,  or  too  forward 
and  one  string  goes  loud,  or  too  backward  and  two 
strings  go  soft  and  weak  ;  and  the  sound-post  (i.e.  the 
little  peg  which  bears  the  strain  on  the  belly  and  back), 
mein  Gott  !  dat  is  de  Teifcl."  But,  correcting  himself, 
he  added,  "  Ko,  the  French  are  right,  they  call  it  the 
soul  of  the  violin,  Vdme  du  violon /  and  it  is  the  soul — 
if  that  is  not  right,  all  the  fiddle  goes  wrong.  A  man 
may  sit  the  whole  morning  worrying  the  sound-post  a 
shade  this  way  or  that,  and  at  last,  in  despair,  he  will 
give  it  up  ;  then  he  will  go  to  the  bridge  and  waste  his 
whole  afternoon  fidgeting  it  about,  and  then  he  will  give 
that  up.  A  hair' s-bread th  this  way  with  the  bridge — 
oh  \  the  fourth  string  is  lovely  ;  but,  bah  !  the  second 
and  third  are  killed  ;  a  little  back  then,  and  now  the 
fourth  is  dead,  and  the  chanterelle  (i.e.  first  string)  sings 
like  a  lark — misery  !  it  is  the  only  string  vat  sing  at  all. 
Give  him  a  fiddle  !"  cried  the  old  gentleman,  gesticulat- 
ing ;  "  yes,  give  him  a  fiddle,  it  will  make  him  mad  !" 

Interspersed  with  such  droll  exaggerations  were  ex- 
cellent hints,  such  as,  "  Leave  your  bridge  and  your 
sound-post  alone  if  ever  you  get  the  fiddle  to  sound  near 
right  ;  don't  change  your  bridge  unless  you  are  abso- 
lutely obliged — sound-board,  neck,  head,  nut,  everything, 
but  not  the  bridge  ;  a  fiddle  and  a  bridge  that  have 


A    SACRIFICE.  47 

lived  for  years  together  love  each  other  as  man  and 
wife  ;  let  them  alone,  my  young  freund,  vy  make  mis- 
chief ?"  and  old  Yenua's  eye  twinkled  as  he  chuckled 
at  his  own  joke,  and  never  ceased  talking  and  nourishing 
his  arms. 

It  was  Yenua  who  first  taught  me  about  the  fabric  of 
the  violin  what  my  old  master,  Oury — who  was  a  pupil 
of  Mori — first  made  me  feel  about  violin  playing — a 
tender  love  and  sympathy  for  the  instrument  as  well  as 
the  art. 

What  was  Yenua's  connection  with  Cambridge  I 
never  could  make  out.  He  seemed  independent.  He 
had  long  ceased  to  teach  or  play,  yet  he  was  frequently 
away,  and  appeared  only  at  intervals,  always  retaining 
the  same  lodgings  at  Cambridge,  and  generally  giving 
me  a  call  when  he  was  in  town.  When  I  came  up, 
about  a  year  after  leaving  the  University,  for  my  volun- 
tary theological  examination,  I  inquired  for  my  old 
friend  Venua  ;  but  he  was  gone,  and  no  one  could  give 
me  any  news  of  him.  I  never  saw  him  again.  He  re- 
mained to  me  simply  a  detached  episode  in  my  musical 
life.* 

From  the  time  that  I  entered  the  Church  I  have  never 
played  to  any  real  purpose.  I  resolved  to  make  that 
sacrifice,  and  no  subsequent  reflection  has  led  me  to  re- 
pent of  my  decision.  1  could  never  have  played  the 
violin  by  halves,  and  had  I  come  up  to  London  and  en- 
tered the  Church  in  the  character  of  a  fiddling  parson,  I 
should  in  all  probability  never  have  got  credit  for,  or 
applied  myself  seriously  to  win,  any  other  position.  At 
all  events,  I  should  have  been  heavily  weighted  and  laid 

*  As  this  is  passing  through  the  press  there  comes  to  me  news  that 
lie  died  and  was  buried  at  Cambridge. 


48  MY    MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

myself  open  to  many  temptations.  I  should  always 
have  been  coining  West  in  search  of  musical  society  and 
distraction,  and  people  would  have  said,  as  indeed  my 
old  friends  have  said,  and  as  my  caricaturists  continue  to 
say,  "  He  should  have  stuck  to  the  one  thing  which  he 
could  do  well,  and  not  meddled  with  theology."  These 
good  people  sometimes  gave  me  credit  for  having  made 
an  heroic  sacrifice.  They  knew  nothing  about  it.  The 
sacrifice  I  made  was  a  very  small  one.  From  the  age  of 
eight  to  the  age  of  twenty-three  I  had  played  the  fiddle 
in  season  and  out  of  season.  Applause  had  lost  its 
charm  for  me.  I  was  hardened  to  flattery.  My  own 
critical  taste  disenchanted  me  with  my  own  perform- 
ances. Nothing  but  the  best  suited  me,  and  I  knew  I 
never  could  attain  to  that  as  an  executant  myself, 
because  I  never  could  take  up  the  violin  professionally. 
Then,  fiddling  was  not  my  only  taste.  I  had  a  passion 
for  oratory,  for  literature,  for  the  study  of  human  nat- 
ure, and  for  church  work.  For  a  time  my  new  paro- 
chial sphere  with  its  special  enthusiasms  expelled  every- 
thing else. 


CHAPTER  II. 

HEAKIXG      MUSIC. 

WOULD  you  rather  be  blind  or  deaf  ?  Most  people 
will  illogically  reply,  "  Neither  !"  but  when  pressed, 
nine  out  of  ten  will  be  found  to  answer,  "  Leave  me  the 
sight  of  my  eyes — let  me  be  deaf."  Yet  all  experience 
shows  that  they  are  wrong.  Deafness  tries  the  temper 
more,  isolates  more,  unfits  for  social  converse,  cuts  off 
from  the  world  of  breathing,  emotional  activity,  tenfold 
more  than  blindness.  There  is  something  as  yet  un- 
analyzed  about  sound,  which  doubles  and  intensifies  at 
all  points  the  sense  of  living  :  when  we  hear  we  are 
somehow  more  alive  than  when  we  see.  Apart  from 
sound,  the  outward  world  has  a  dreamlike  and  unreal 
look — we  only  half  believe  in  it  ;  we  miss  at  each 
moment  what  it  contains.  It  presents,  indeed,  innumer- 
able pictures  of  still-life  ;  but  these  refuse  to  yield  up 
half  their  secrets.  If  any  one  is  inclined  to  doubt  this, 
let  him  stop  his  cars  with  cotton  wool  for  five  min- 
utes, and  sit  in  the  room  with  some  intelligent  friend 
who  enjoys  the  full  use  of  his  ears,  and  at  the  end  of  five 
or  ten  minutes  let  the  two  compare  notes.  Of  course, 
we  must  suppose  that  both  are  doing  nothing,  except  the 
one  taking  stock  of  his  loss,  and  the  other  taking  stock 
of  his  gain. 

I  sit,  then,  in  my  chair  stone  deaf.  I  look  up  at  the 
pictures  on  the  wall — a  man  driving  a  goat,  a  haystack, 
and  some  pigs  —  an  engraving  of  Millais's  "  Black 


50  MY   MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

Brunswicker. "  lam  tired  of  tlie  sight  of  it.  I  notice 
the  bird  on  his  perch  ;  his  mouth  is  wide  open,  he  looks 
to  me  as  if  he  were  in  a  fit.  I  point  at  him  in  an 
alarmed  manner  ;  my  friend  shakes  his  head  with  a  smile 
— the  bird's  only  singing.  I  can't  say  I  am  glad  to  hear 
it,  for  I  cannot  hear  anything.  Presently  my  friend 
rises  and  goes  to  the  door,  opens  it — what  on  earth  for  ? 
"Why,  in  jumps  the  cat.  1  suppose  he  heard  it  outside  ; 
it  might  have  mewed  till  doomsday,  as  far  as  my  ears 
were  concerned.  My  strange  companion  has  no  sooner 
sat  down  on  his  chair,  than  he  jumps  up  as  if  stung. 
He  points  out,  in  answer  to  my  bewildered  look,  that  the 
legs  are  loose  ;  he  must  have  heard  them  creak,  I  sup- 
pose. Then  he  goes  up  to  the  clock,  and  begins  wind- 
ing it  up  ;  he  must  have  noticed  that  it  had  left  off  tick- 
ing. I  might  not  have  found  that  out  for  hours. 
Another  start  !  he  rushes  from  the  room,  I  follow — 
the  maid  has  spilt  the  coal-scuttle  all  down  the  stairs  ; 
he  probably  heard  the  smash.  My  wife  might  have 
fallen  down-stairs  and  broken  her  neck,  and  I  should 
have  known  nothing  about  it.  No  sooner  are  we  alone 
again,  than  he  once  more  rises,  I  know  not  why  ;  but  1 
perceive  he  is  met  at  the  door  by  some  one  who  has  called 
him  ;  it  is  of  no  use  for  any  one  to  call  me. 

There  happens  to  be  a  kettle  on  the  fire,  and  at  a  par- 
ticular moment  my  prudent  friend  rises.  I  should  never 
have  thought  of  it — the  kettle  is  going  to  boil  over  ;  he 
liears.  All  this  is  insupportable.  I  am  being  left  out 
of  life — it  is  worse  than  being  shut  up  in  the  dark.  I 
tear  the  wool  out  of  my  ears  long  before  the  expiration 
of  the  ten  minutes,  and  my  friend  addresses  me  as  fol- 
lows : 

"  I  pass  over  the  canary,  the  cat,  the  chair,  the  coal- 
pcuttle,  and  the  kettle.  You  happened  to  find  out  about 


THE    MUSICAL   EAR.  51 

them  a  clay  after  the  fair  by  using  your  eyes  ;  but  besides 
all  this,  of  liow  much  vivid  life  were  you  deprived — how- 
many  details  of  consciousness,  how  many  avenues  of 
thought  were  lost  to  you  in  less  than  ten  minutes  !  As 
I  sat,  I  could  hear  your  favorite  nocturne  of  Chopin 
being  played  in  the  next  room.  Perhaps  you  did  not 
know  it  was  raining  ;  nor  should  I  have  noticed  it,  only 
I  heard  it  on  the  skylight.  I  therefore  rang  the  bell, 
ordered  a  trap-door  open  in  the  roof  to  be  shut,  and  sent 
the  carriage  for  a  lady  who  would  have  otherwise  had  to 
walk  home.  You  did  not  notice  a  loud  crack  behind 
you  ;  but,  in  fact,  a  hot  coal  flew  out  of  the  fire,  and  I 
seized  it  in  time  to  prevent  mischief.  The  postman's 
knock  reminded  me  of  some  letters  I  ought  to  write,  and 
I  made  a  note  of  them.  The  band  playing  outside  put 
me  in  mind  of  some  concert-tickets  I  had  promised  to 
send.  A  neighboring  church-bell  reminded  me  of  the 
fact  that  it  was  Wednesday,  and  about  a  quarter  to 
eleven  o'clock.  Punch  and  Judy  heard  in  the  distance 
reminded  me  of  the  children,  and  some  toys  I  had  prom- 
ised. I  could  hear  the  distant  wliistle  of  a  train.  The 
pleasant  crackling  of  the  fire  behind  me  was  most  genial. 
I  let  a  poor  bee  out  who  was  buzzing  madly  upon  the 
window-pane.  I  heard  a  ring  at  the  street-bell ;  presently 
I  heard  a  well-known  voice  in  the  hall.  I  knew  who 
had  arrived  ;  I  knew  who  met  him  ;  I  could  shrewdly 
conjecture  where  they  went  together,  and  I  guessed  not 
unnaturally  that  the  children's  lessons  would  be  neg- 
lected that  morning,  since  a  far  more  agreeable  compan- 
ion had  stepped  in  to  monopolize  the  eldest  daughter. 
Of  all  which  things,  my  poor  friend,  you  knew  nothing, 
because  your  ears  were  stuffed  with  cotton  wool." 

Alas  !  too  many  of  us  go  through  life  with  our  ears 
stuffed  with  cotton  wool.     Some  persons  can  hear,  but 


52  KY    MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

not  well  ;  others  can  hear  common  sounds  and  musical 
sounds,  and  no  one  would  suspect  in  them  any  defect, 
until  it  some  day  turns  out  that  they  do  not  know  the 
difference  between  "  God  save  the  Queen"  and  "  Auld 
lang  syne. ' '  Thus  we  reach  the  distinction  between  the 
common  ear  and  the  musical  ear.  Then,  in  connection 
with  the  musical  ear,  there  are  mysteries.  Some  cannot 
hear  sounds  lower  than  a  certain  note  ;  others  cannot 
hear  them  higher  than  a  certain  note,  as  musical  sounds. 

The  mystery  of  the  musical  ear  has  not  been  solved. 
Yet  some  things  are  known  about  it.  There  is  probably 
no  ear  so  radically  defective — except  a  deaf  car — as  to  be 
incapable  of  a  certain  musical  training.  The  curate  who 
arrives  in  a  High  Church  parish  without  a  notion  of  the 
right  note  to  intone  upon,  and  with  the  vaguest  powers 
of  singing  it  when  it  is  given  him,  in  a  few  months 
learns  to  take  fairly  the  various  pitches  in  the  service. 

But  still  the  question  remains — a  physiological  one — 
why  is  one  ear  musical  and  another  not  ?  Professor 
Helmholtz,  whose  discoveries  in  the  sound-world  are 
only  comparable  to  the  discoveries  of  Newton  in  the 
world  of  light,  has  put  forth  an  ingenious  theory  some- 
what to  this  effect :  He  discovered  within  the  ear,  and 
soaked  in  a  sensitive  fluid,  rows  and  rows  of  microscopic 
nerves — several  hundred  in  number — each  one  of  which, 
like  the  string  of  a  pianoforte,  he  believed  vibrated  to 
some  note  ;  therefore,  we  were  to  infer  that  just  as  a 
note  sung  outside  a  piano  will  set  up  in  the  correspond- 
ing wire  a  sympathetic  vibration,  so  any  sound  or 
sounds  in  the  outer  world  represented  by  a  nerve  wire, 
or  nerves  in  the  ear,  could  be  heard  by  the  ear  ;  and,  as 
a  consequence,  I  suppose  any  absence  of  or  defect  in 
these  internal  nerve  wires  would  prevent  us  from  hear- 
ing the  sound  as  others  better  constituted  would  hear  it. 


WHAT   IS   THE   MUSICAL   EAR?  53 

The  next  direct  question  of  musical  ear  now  becomes 
one  of  inherited  tendency  and  special  training.  The 
musical  ear  is  the  ear  that  has  learned — by  constantly 
using  the  same  intervals — to  recognize  the  tones  and 
semi-tones  of  the  usual  scale,  and  to  regard  all  variations 
of  quarter-tones  as  exceptions  and  subtleties  not  to  be 
taken  account  of  in  the  general  construction  of  melody 
and  harmony.  Now,  our  octave,  and  our  division  of 
the  octave  into  tones  and  semi-tones,  is  not  artificial,  but 
natural,  founded  as  much  upon  certain  laws  of  sound- 
vibration  as  our  notation  (if  I  may  say  so)  of  color  is 
founded  upon  the  laws  of  light- vibration.  But  although 
the  selection  of  eight  notes  with  their  semi-tones  is  the 
natural  and  scientific  scale,  seeing  that  the  ear  is  capable 
of  hearing  impartially  vast  numbers  of  other  vibrations 
of  sound  which  produce  vast  numbers  of  other  intervals, 
quarter-notes,  etc.,  what  we  have  to  do  in  training  the 
musical  ear  is  just  to  harp  on  the  intervals  which  com- 
pose the  musical  scale  in  various  keys,  and  on  these  only. 
In  this  way  the  ear  is  gradually  weaned  from  sym- 
pathy with  what  is  out  of  tune — ceases  to  be  dog-like  or 
savage-like,  and  becomes  the  cultured  organ  for  recogniz- 
ing the  natural  order  and  progression  of  those  measured 
and  related  vibrations  which  we  call  musical  sound.  Of 
course,  a  tendency  like  this  can  be  inherited  just  as 
much  as  any  other,  and  in  almost  all  cases  it  can  be  im- 
proved and  cultivated. 

I  have  mentioned  Professor  lielmholtz's  theory,  but 
have  reason  to  think  that  he  is  not,  on  reconsideration, 
prepared  to  indorse  it  fully.  The  little  rows  of  minute 
nerve-wires,  each  vibrating  to  a  definite  sound,  are  indeed 
a  fascinating  idea  ;  but  whether  true  or  false,  it  enables 
us,  by  a  kind  of  physical  parable,  to  understand  the 
sort  of  way  in  which  the  ear,  being  capable  of  perceiving 


54  MY   MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

a  large  variety  of  sounds,  may  be  trained  to  give  the 
preference  to  certain  ones  by  constantly  allowing  itself 
to  be  exercised  by  their  vibrations,  and  accustoming  it- 
self to  select  certain  notes,  and  establish  between  them 
definite  and  fixed  relations.  The  exact  physical  mechan- 
ism which  enables  the  ear  to  do  this  may  have  yet  to  be 
discovered,  but  that  it  exists  there  can  be  no  doubt,  and 
the  use  and  cultivation  of  it  is  in  fact  the  use  and  culti- 
vation of  what  we  call  "  an  ear  for  music." 

And  now  I  feel  I  owe  the  reader  an  apology.  When 
I  have  some  subject  which  I  am  desirous  to  discuss, 
something  over  which  I  may  have  been  brooding  for 
years,  my  first  instinct  is  to  plunge  into  the  middle  of 
it  ;  my  second  is  to  begin  at  the  beginning  ;  my  third 
(and  this  is  the  one  I  generally  succumb  to)  is  to  begin 
before  the  beginning.  Thus  the  important  remarks 
which  I  am  about  to  make  on  hearing  music  have  been 
fairly  pushed  aside,  first,  by  one  preface  on  the  sense  of 
hearing  generally,  and  second,  by  another  preface  on  the 
musical  ear  in  particular  ;  but  In  medias  res  shall  be 
my  motto  now  ;  no  more  dallying  with  the  subject  ;  no 
more  strutting  in  front  of  the  curtain  ;  no  more  pro- 
logue— the  actors  wait,  the  bell  rings,  the  curtain  rises  ; 
let  us  hope  there  is  a  good  audience. 

This  is  an  afternoon  "  AT  HOME."  These  words, 
you  will  observe,  are  printed  in  very  large  type.  In  a 
corner  of  the  card  we  gather  from  the  small  word 
"music,"  the  quite  mixed  and  genial  nature  of  the 
whole  entertainment.  Signer  Boreo  Guffaw,  the  well- 
known  bass  singer,  is  expected  to  look  in,  a  few  ama- 
teurs have  promised  to  help  if  necessary,  and  every  one 
who  knows  Mrs.  de  Perkins  is  aware  that  this  is  one  of 
those  two  annual  assemblies  in  which  that  well-meaning 


ilKS.    BE    PERKINS    "AT    HOME."  53 

lady  endeavors  to  pay  off  the  various  dinners  and  (l  At 
Homes' '  which  she  may  herself  have  been  exposed  to 
during  the  last  year.  De  Perkins,  who  is  elderly,  en- 
gaged in  the  city,  and  not  wealthy,  won't  give  dinners  ; 
he  does  not  like  these  "  At  Homes  ;"  but  he  is  told 
that  they  are  necessary — and  then  Guffaw,  who  taught 
Mrs.  de  Perkins  before  she  was  married,  is  very  good- 
natured,  and  so  is  every  one  ;  and  the  rooms,  not  very 
large,  are  soon  full,  the  staircase  early  ceases  to  be  navi- 
gable, and  Mrs.  de  Perkins,  who  really  is  rather  nice, 
stands  at  the  door,  and  does  her  best  to  catch  every 
one's  eye,  although,  by  a  certain  wild  and  anxious  look 
in  her  face,  we  know  that  she  is  wondering  why  Guffaw 
does  not  begin. 

Jammed  into  a  niche  which  just  fits  me  if  I  hold  my 
arms  quite  stiff,  and  stand  up  stark  and  straight,  I  pres- 
ently hear  the  eminent  foreigner  begin  "  In  questa 
Tomba  'scura."  Do  I  enjoy  this  song?  In  the  first 
place  I  am  ill  at  ease.  I  crane  my  neck  to  look  round 
the  corner.  I  can  just  see  the  portly  basso  with  his 
thumbs  in  his  waistcoat  pockets  ;  but  just  opposite  me 
stands  my  hostess  receiving  more  guests,  and  the  conse- 
quence is  that  Guffaw's  "  Tomba"  is  mixed  up  with 
all  kinds  of  sotto  voce's — "  So  glad  you've  come," 
"  How's-  -?"  "You  mustn't  talk,"  "Tea  in  the 
next  room"  —  while  in  front  of  me  conversation, 
momentarily  suspended,  recommences,  all  about  some 
garden  party  and  some  one  being  lost,  and  where  they 
were  found,  and  who  they  were  with,  and  so  on. 

Do  I  enjoy  the  music  ?  Whether  I  do  or  not,  I  in- 
tend to  get  out  of  this  miserable  niche — away  to  the 
other  room,  where  there  is  tea.  The  song  is  over,  and 
there  is  naturally  a  pause  in  the  conversation  :  at  last  I 
find  some  one  that  I  wish  to  talk  to.  I  am  just  explain- 


56  MY   MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

ing  with  unequalled  lucidity  the  new  scheme  for  boring 
the  Channel  Tunnel — attracting,  in  short,  more  than  one 
attentive  listener — when  up  trips  my  anxious  but  smiling 
hostess  :  "  You  must  really  listen  to  this  gentleman  who 
is  playing — a  clergyman,  you  know,  most  gifted  ;  he 
plays  nothing  but  the  oldest  masters,  Bach,  and  that 
sort,  you  know.  Hush  !  hush  !"  and  she  glides  off  tap- 
ping and  silencing  people  right  and  left,  just  as  they 
have  got  into  a  nice  chat  and  are  beginning  to  make 
way — as  I  was,  in  fact. 

T  look  round  me.  Disappointed,  cross,  irritable-look- 
ing faces,  which  a  moment  before  were  smiling  and  ani- 
mated, and  from  the  distance  the  hard  tinkle  of  the  per- 
fectly self-satisfied  musician  grating  upon  every  one's 
nerves — why  ?  Not  because  it  is  so  bad  ;  simply  because 
it  is  not  wanted  then  and  there.  Gradually,  as  the  ever- 
lasting fugue  goes  on  and  on,  or  runs  into  another  fugue, 
people  begin  to  talk  feebly.  I  begin  about  the  Channel 
again,  but  by  this  time  my  audience  has  dispersed  ;  my 
most  devoted  hearer — a  lady  who  suffers  frightfully 
from  sea-sickness — does  not  seem  to  remember  where  I 
left  off.  I  can't  quite  remember  myself — we  drop  the 
subject.  I  have  to  begin  all  over  again,  but  with 
something  different,  to  some  one  else  ;  then  at  last  the 
fugue  leaves  off.  Did  any  one  enjoy  the  music  ?  Then 
Guffaw  is  put  on  to  sing  a  duet  just  as  I  was  telling  that 
capital  story  about  the  sparrow  in  church.  Well,  of 
course  it  was  no  good,  all  the  point  was  taken  out  of  it 
because  I  had  to  hurry  over  it  and  end  in  a  guilty  kind 
of  underbreath.  I  did  not  stay  to  hear  the  new  amateur 
tenor,  Mr.  Flutuloo,  who,  1  am  told,  sang  with  an  eye- 
glass fixed  rigidly  in  one  eye,  while  he  positively  wept 
with  the  other.  I  can  believe  that  the  sensation  he 
created  may  have  been  considerable  ;  I  was  a  great  deal 


CONCERTS    AND    BALLADS.  57 

too  sore  about  the  Channel  Tunnel  and  the  sparrow, 
etc.,  to  care  ;  in  short,  I  left  Mrs.  de  Perkins's  At  Home 
in  a  very  bad  humor  after,  I  regret  to  say,  hearing  some 
music,  but  certainly  not  enjoying  it.  The  moral  of  this 
is — 

1.  Let  it   be   either   music  or  conversation,  but  not 
both. 

2.  If  music,  let  all  the  audience  be  musical,  and  all 
the  musicians  good. 

3.  Don't  cram  the  room  and  suffocate  the  singers,  but 
ask  a  moderate  company,  let  them  all  be  seated,  and  let 
the  conversation  in  between  be  limited  to  the  merest  in- 
terchange of  courtesies. 

4.  Avoid  the  current    musical    "At    Home."     The 
De  Perkins  method  never  answers  ;  it  offends  the  real 
musicians,  encourages  musical  impostors,  and  bores  the 
company. 

Some  people  enjoy  themselves  at  concerts.  But 
"  some  people"  and  "concerts"  are  vague  terms. 
You  must  go  with  the  right  people,  and  you  must  go  to 
the  right  concerts.  These  right  conditions  will,  of 
course,  vary  according  to  taste  and  cultivation.  The 
right  people  for  you  are  in  all  cases  the  people  with 
whom  you  are  musically  in  sympathy.  The  right  con- 
certs for  you  are  the  concerts  you  can  at  least  in  some 
measure  enjoy  and  understand.  The  classical  pedant 
sneers  at  people  who  delight  in  ballad  concerts  and  hate 
"Wagner  ;  but  the  greatest  composers  have  not  been  above 
ballads,  and  although  there  are  bad  ballads,  yet  the 
characteristics  of  a  ballad — namely,  that  it  should  be 
lyrical,  simple,  and  easily  understood — are  not  bad  char- 
acteristics. Some  of  the  greatest  men  have  been  infinite 
losers  because  they  happened  to  be  generally  unintel- 
ligible, while  inferior  people  have  exercised  an  influ- 


58  MY    MUSICAL   MEMO  HIES. 

ence  out  of  proportion  to  their  merits,  simply  because 
they  made  themselves  generally  understood.  And  be  it 
observed,  that  this  element  of  intelligibility  is  one  com- 
mon to  the  ballad  and  all  the  greatest  works  of  art.  The 
greatest  men  all  "  strike  home."  The  transfiguration  is 
simple — so  is  the  Moses  of  Michael  Angelo.  So  is  Han- 
del's Messiah  taken  as  a  whole.  So  is  the  Elijah  of 
Mendelssohn.  They  are  a  great  deal  more  than  simple, 
but  they  are  that. 

There  are  other  kinds  of  mixed  concerts  which  have 
their  excuse,  but  they  are  private  ;  there  are  no  contra- 
dictions, no  aggravations,  no  jolts  in  them.  We  are  not 
shocked  out  of  one  phase  of  emotion  into  another  ;  we 
are  not  compelled  to  swallow  an  Italian  bitffo  song  after  a 
duet  from  Mozart's  requiem,  or  a  ballad  of  Claribel,  fol- 
lowed by  a  bit  of  Spohr's  Last  Judgment.  And  yet  the 
programme  is  mixed,  varied — as  the  conversation  of 
friends  is  varied,  flitting  birdlike  through  many  lands, 
pausing  above  giddy  precipices,  gliding  over  summer 
seas,  lingering  in  bright  meadows,  poised  above  pop- 
ulous cities,  lingering  about  the  habitations  of  man. 
But  no  more  prosy  efforts  to  describe  what  is  indescriba- 
ble ;  let  the  curtain  rise  once  more  and  let  the  actors 
themselves  appear  before  me. 

She  is  fair,  with  brown-red  hair  ;  she  is  serene,  with 
one  of  those  quiet,  equable  temperaments,  whose  priv- 
ilege it  is  to  blend  others  into  harmony  by  yielding  to 
each  new  wave  of  thought  and  feeling  as  it  rises,  with 
that  sort  of  simple,  unaffected  pleasure,  the  very  sight 
of  which  makes  others  happy.  Alas  !  she  has  been 
dead  these  many  summers  ;  yet  it  is  the  privilege  of 
memory  to  unlock  the  doors  of  old  rooms,  and  find  there 
suddenly,  as  in  a  dream,  the  scenes  that  have  faded  out 
of  the  real  world  forever.  For  a  moment  I  close  my 


SHADOWS    OF   THE    PAST.  59 

eyes.  It  is  an  autumn  e\7ening  by  the  sea.  How  pleas- 
antly the  waves  came  plashing  in  as  we  paced  the  shore 
in  the  deepening  night  !  We  spoke  of  those  weird  songs 
of  Schubert  which  seem  like  sad  eyes  looking  out  into 
the  sunset  over  some  waste  of  measureless  waters  ;  we 
spoke  of  those  Nocturnes  of  Chopin,  like  dream  scenes, 
painted  on  tinted  backgrounds. 

"His  life,"  said  Ferdinand,  "was  what  Kovalis 
would  have  called  a  dream  within  a  dream." 

"Yes,"  I  answered,  "but  a  dream  always  starting 
from  reality  and  breaking  into  it  again." 

"  And  is  not  that  reflected  in  his  music?"  rejoined 
Estelle.  "  It  makes  it  sometimes  quite  terrible  to  me, 
the  harsh  contrast  between  the  reality  and  the  dream,  a 
chord,  a  transition  bar,  and  then  fainter  and  fainter 
grows  the  shadow-land,  so  intensely  real  and  passionate 
the  moment  before — it  darkens  and  melts  into  a  thin, 
cold  mist — just  as  those  gorgeous  shadows  of  purple  and 
orange  on  the  sea,  which  seemed  a  minute  ago  almost 
substantial,  melt  and  leave  the  cold  sea  dark,  and  the  air 
keen  and  sharp." 

"Yes,  that  was  the  history  of  Chopin's  life;  the 
love  of  Madame  Sand  was  his  dream,  and  the  awaken- 
ing was  the  cold  sea  and  the  sharp,  keen  air  that  killed 
him." 

"  But  before  the  end  what  dreams  haunted  him,  frag- 
ments of  the  never-forgotten  days,  embalmed  in  fugitive 
melody,  and  mystically  woven  harmonies  !  I  think  he 
must  have  lived  over  again*  perfectly  in  such  moments. 
They  were  the  realities  ;  and  the  outer-life,  latterly  at 
least,  became  the  dream.  Listen  ! 

•*  *  #  x  *  * 

"  What  sweetness  ia  here,  this  grassy  bank,  these 
drooping  citron  flowers,  these  glowing  azaleas,  fringing 


60  MY    MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

the  summer  islet,  set  like  a  jewel  in  the  bosom  of  the 
Mediterranean  !  The  name  of  Lucrezia  Floriani  rises 
to  my  lips,  the  name  of  the  Prince  Karol,  who  is 
Chopin.  Time  is  not.  These  skies  are  eternally  blue. 
This  welling  up  of  crystal  water,  just  kissing  the  fringe 
of  drooping  blossom  against  the  shore  ;  this  hum  of  in- 
sect life,  breaking  the  silence,  only  to  make  the  summer 
air  more  slumbrous  ;  the  little  rain-cloud  on  the  horizon, 
which,  toward  evening,  will  creep  up,  until  the  distance 
is  blotted  out,  and  the  black  sky  is  rent  with  forked 
lightning — such  things  entered  into  Chopin's  soul,  and 
live  forever  in  his  profound  and  strange  musical  reveries. 
"  But  apart  from  this  deeply  personal  element,  the 
deepest  thing  of  all,  as  it  is  in  the  nature  of  every  true 
Pole,  was  the  undertone  of  sad  patriotism  ;  this  pierces 
when  least  expected  ;  this  is  never  long  absent.  Listen  ! 

•*  V:  *  w  #  * 

"  It  is  a  dazzling  crowd,  glittering  with  diamond 
lights — a  profusion  of  rare  jewels  ;  the  halls  are  filled 
with  perfume,  the  strains  of  a  mazurka  are  in  the  air. 
They  seem  to  call  forth  as  by  magic,  and  support  with 
the  breath  of  some  mystic  life,  these  floating,  swaying 
forms  of  beautiful  women,  and  these  countrymen  of 
Chopin,  without  a  country  ;  and  as  the  dance  goes  weaving 
on,  with  a  certain  dreamy  and  pensive  grace,  we  per- 
ceive that  in  the  heart  of  the  music  there  is  a  deep 
wound,  a  minor  chord  of  inextinguishable  pain,  hidden 
by  lovely  arabesques  of  subtle  sweetness,  winning,  be- 
guiling, subduing,  but  never  for  long  hiding  the  for- 
lorn sorrow  of  a  hopeless  but  undying  patriotism.  Xow 
it  is  a  Polonaise.  Listen  ! 

»•.         r  ..  *'*.*».'# 

"  What  enterprise,  what  indomitable  effort  to  achieve 
the  impossible,  what  frantic  exploits,  as  of  one  resolved 


A   tflGHT   IN   THE   PAST.  61 

to  die  on  the  battle-field,  but  before  dying  to  overwhelm 
with  deeds  of  intrepid  valor  his  terrible  and  relentless 
foe  !  The  pauses  are  the  pauses  of  sheer  exhaustion  ;  in 
them  we  catch  through  the  sulphurous  clouds  a  sight  of 
remote  battle-scenes  and  distant  combinations,  until  i.he 
warrior  rises  again  in  his  strength,  and  once  more  for  a 
time  his  enemies  fly  scattered. ' ' 

"  I  shall  think  of  all  this  when  I  play  your  favorite 
Polonaise."  She  drew  her  shawl  close  to  her — the  mist 
crept  round  the  bay — it  was  no  longer  summer  ;  we 
went  in,  we  three,  Low  happy,  how  harmonious, 
blended  by  the  grace — the  free,  the  tender  grace — of 
one  lovely  and  beloved  presence  ! 

*  »**•** 

Unlock  the  door — let  no  footfall  from  the  present 
disturb  this  shadow- scene.  It  is  the  old  room  —  the 
familiar  room.  I  see  her  there.  There  is  no  sense  of 
strangeness  or  unreality  about  her  ;  she  smiles,  as  she 
was  wont  to  smile,  she  moves  softly — her  fingers  turn 
the  music  leaves — the  candles  are  lighted — her  face  is 
half  in  shade — 1  can  hear  her  low  melodious  laugh.  I 
seem  to  be  once  more  holding  my  Stradivarius  violin 
lovingly.  What  !  there  is  no  sign  of  dust,  or  age,  or 
neglect  about  this  long-closed  room.  As  we  go  back  to 
past  chapters  of  a  beloved  story,  so  have  I  gone  back  to 
read  again  a  fragment  of  life,  and  as  I  look,  and  look, 
and  look,  the  intervening  years  roll  away,  the  shadows 
become  real,  "  till  only  the  dead  seem  living,  and  only 
the  living  seem  dead." 

Let  it  be  Mendelssohn's  D  minor  trio.  The  playing  of 
that  night  remains  with  me.  AVe  seemed  alive — sensi- 
tively alive  to  every  vibration  ;  her  fingers  caressed  the 
cool  ivory  keys  lovingly,  the  Stradivarius  spoke  raptur- 
ously to  the  lightest  touch  of  the  bow,  the  full-toned 


62  MY  MUSICAL  MEMORIES. 

violoncello  gave  out  the  deep  but  tender  notes,  like  the 
voices  of  the  sea  in  enchanted  caves.  How  clean  and 
"  seizing,"  as  the  French  say,  was  her  rendering  of  the 
opening  movement  !  How  wonderfully  woven-in  were 
the  parts  !  We  all  three  made  but  one,  yet  retaining 
our  perfect  individualities.  A  mystic  presence  invisible 
seemed  to  be  with  us  ;  we  felt  as  if  playing  in  the  presence 
of  the  great,  the  gentle  Mendelssohn  ;  and  though  we 
played,  so  absorbed  were  we,  that  we  seemed  at  the  same 
moment  to  be  following  our  own  music  like  listeners,  in 
ourselves  and  out  of  ourselves.  Between  the  movements 
we  spoke  not.  I  marked  the  flush  upon  her  cheek — the 
bright  light  in  her  eyes.  He  was  grave,  intensely  pre- 
occupied— the  dream-power  was  upon  us  all.  The  peace 
and  full  contentment  of  the  slow  movement  with  its  rich 
and  measured  flow  of  melody  melting  at  last  into  that 
heavenly  trance  at  the  close,  which  leaves  us  at  the  open 
gates  of  Paradise  ;  then  the  sudden  break  at  the  scherzo, 
as  though  a  joyous  troop  of  lower  earth- spirits  had  burst 
in  to  tear  us  away  from  the  divine  contemplation,  and 
toss  us  back  into  a  world  of  wild  uproar  and  merriment ; 
then  a  slight  pause  before  the  tempestuous,  but  intensely 
earnest,  conclusion.  Here  is  the  battle  of  life,  with  its 
suspense,  its  failure,  its  endeavor — striving  for  the  vic- 
tory, its  wild  and  passionate  overthrow,  its  indomitable 
recovery  and  untamed  valor  ;  that  is  the  bracing  and 
sublime  atmosphere  of  the  last  movement  more  true  to 
life  than  ecstasy,  more  wholesome  than  peace,  more  dig- 
nified than  pleasure  ;  and  that  is  where  the  D  minor 
trio  leaves  us. 

Then  we  drifted  into  talk  of  Mendelssohn.  As  she 
sat  she  occasionally  played  some  fragment  from  a  con- 
certo— some  striking  chord  from  the  St.  Paul,  some  pas- 
sage from  Ruy  jBlas,  or  an  echo  from  the  incomparably 


A   XIGHT   li*   TUL}    PAST.  G3 

delicate  overture  to  the  beautiful  "Melusine,"  till  one 
said  "  Sing,"  and  she  sang  from  Schumann,  the  ballads 
from  Heine — those  tragedies  and  melodramas  in  three 
verses,  or  in  two  lines,  and  Brahm's  "  Guten  Abend, 
Gate  Xacht."  Then  followed  songs  without  words,  and 
sitting  in  the  shadow  I  saw  her  face  in  the  light,  and 
felt  her  spirit  rise  and  fall  upon  the  pulses  of  invisible 
sound,  in  unison  with  ours.  Then  came  some  of  Ernst's 
reveries  on  the  violin,  and  so  the  evening  wore  away, 
and  we  took  no  account  of  the  liours. 

Were  there  any  other  listeners  ?  Yes,  at  times  one 
and  another  of  them  would  recall  a  passage — a  like- 
ness between  Mendelssohn  and  Bach,  a  phrase  of  Scar- 
latti, or  a  combination  of  Wagner  in  a  Brahms  move- 
ment. 

This,  if  you  like,  was  a  mixed  programme,  but  its 
parts  were  mixed  with  subtle  sympathies,  and  united  by 
the  finest  threads  of  thought  and  emotion.  Thus  we 
moved  on  from  one  delight  to  another  with  no  sense 
of  unpleasant  or  disjointed  break — as  those  who  pass  out 
of  a  lovely  grotto  into  the  sunlight,  and  after  winding 
through  hedgerows  of  May  bloom  to  the  quiet  shore, 
pass  back  into  a  garden  of  tall  trees  and  smooth  lawns, 
and  thence  to  some  lovely  conservatory  filled  with  tropi- 
cal bloom,  thence  to  a  marble  vestibule,  thence  to  halls 
of  tapestry,  and  luxurious  couches  and  repose.  And 
there  has  been  no  break — nothing  has  jarred  upon  us  in 
the  midst  of  variety.  Hand  in  hand  we  have  been  with 
friends  ;  we  have  seen  smiles  upon  dear  faces.  We 
have  poured  forth  words,  and  soul  has  been  revealed  to 
soul  ;  and  without,  the  world  of  fair  things  has  imaged 
the  life  of  vivid  and  inexhaustible  thought  and  feeling 
within.  Compare,  I  pray  you,  these  parables  of 
"Hearing  Music"  aright,  with  the  strange  and  dis- 


C4  MY    MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

jointed  legend  of  "  Mrs.  de  Perkins  and  her  musical  At 
Home." 

###### 

I  will  take  a  wider  sweep.  I  have  received  the  keen- 
est national  impressions  from  music. 

At  midnight  I  heard  the  players  pass  by.  The  warm 
Italian  air,  scarce  chilled  by  the  night,  came  in  from  the 
orange  gardens.  I  leaned  my  head  forward  to  breathe 
its  full  fragrance.  The  musicians  had  come  from 
yonder  lighted  palace  ;  now  they  pass  on  up  through  the 
groves  of  citron  and  myrtle,  from  the  distant  deep  shad- 
ows ;  the  regular  pulse  of  the  music  brings  back  the  feel- 
ing of  the  dance  ;  it  is  a  mere  echo,  a  shadow  dance — 
fainter  and  fainter  now  ;  I  can  hear  it  no  more.  I  look 
up,  the  stars  burn  like  gold. 

All  Italy  in  a  moment  is  resumed  for  me  in  that  slight 
picture.  A  few  bars  of  music,  heard  at  random,  may 
conjure  it  up  again — first  the  emotion,  then  the  picture. 
*  #  •*  x  #•  # 

The  feast  of  the  Kermess  was  over  in  Amsterdam. 
The  town  filled  with  country -people  had  been  emptying 
all  through  the  night.  The  booths  in  the  market-places 
were  struck.  I  stood  high  up,  looking  over  the  network 
of  canals  toward  the  Scheldt.  Abo  re  my  head  I  heard 
the  cry  of  the  wild  swan,  winging  its  way  southward 
from  Sweden,  and  below  a  rough  chorus  of  men  and 
women  came  over  the  bridge.  It  was  loud,  boisterous 
singing,  but  in  parts  well  defined,  rhythmic,  and  full 
of  a  strong  charm  ;  they  passed  into  a  side  street ;  the 
drinking  chorus  seemed  to  split  into  fragments  and  then 
to  cease.  How  often  has  it  since  rung  in  my  ears,  and 
so  often  has  it  brought  back  with  it  the  hearty,  coarse, 
eager  life  of  Holland,  and  the  keen,  brackish  odor  of  the 
wind  blowing  in  from  the  North  Sea. 


EMOTION    AND    THE    PAINTER.  65 

But  in  each  case  observe  the  peculiar,  direct  power 
which  music  has  of  dealing  with  the  nerve  centres.  It 
is  not  the  image  which  is  recalled  and  which  brings  back 
the  feeling ;  but  the  sound  awakes  directly  a  peculiar 
rhythm  of  nervous  wave-motion,  which  is  the  physical 
vehicle  for  a  peculiar  feeling.  Thus  a  breath  of  the  past 
in  a  desert  at  first  unpeopled,  and  the  very  atmosphere  of 
a  past  moment  is  restored,  in  which  mystic  air  the  forms 
of  dead  scenes  and  persons  begin  to  live  and  grow  again, 
and  at  last  become  intensely  vivid.  In  this,  note  that 
music  differs  from  every  other  art.  The  painter  and  poet 
alike  depend  directly  upon  scenes  and  concrete  images 
for  their  emotion  ;  but  the  musician  depends  directly 
upon  emotion  for  his  ecenes  and  images,  and  even  when 
these  are  absent,  he  is  not  less  potent — sometimes  more 
so  ;  for  he  can  handle  and  mould  the  temperature  of 
the  mind  itself  at  will,  wind  up  feeling  unconnected 
with  thought  through  every  semitone,  modulate  and 
change  it,  fit  and  unfit  us  for  exertion,  make  us  forget 
the  hard,  persistent  images  of  pain  and  trouble,  and  the 
coarse  realism  that  damps  joy — by  creating  an  atmos- 
phere within,  in  which  these  cannot  breathe,  and  so  are 
expelled  as  to  any  power  they  may  have  to  move  us — 
actually  expelled  for  a  season  from  the  mind. 

There  is  a  phrase,  "  I  was  carried  away  by  the 
music."  That  expression  is  true  to  feeling;  it  means, 
"  When  I  heard  this  or  that,  I  ceased  to  be  affected  by 
the  outward  things  or  thoughts  which  a  moment  before 

o  o 

moved  me  ;  I  entered  a  world  of  other  feeling,  or — 
what  I  before  possessed  was  so  heightened  and  changed 
that  1  seemed  to  have*  been  '  carried  away  '  from  the 
old  thing  in  a  moment."  But  it  would  be  still  truer 
to  say,  not  "music  earned  me  away,"  but  "music 
carried  away,  or  changed,  the  mood,  and  with  it  tho 


66  MY   MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

significance  of  the  things  which  occupied  me  in  that 
mood." 

The  easy  command  over  the  emotions  possessed  by 
sound,  and  elaborated  by  the  art  of  music,  is  due  to  the 
direct  impact  of  the  air- waves  upon  the  drum  of  the  ear, 
which  collects  them  and  sends  them  to  the  seat  of  con- 
sciousness in  the  brain  by  means  of  the  auditory  nerve. 
The  same,  of  course,  is  true  of  the  waves  of  color  upon 
the  eye,  scent  upon  the  nose,  and  vibrations  of  touch 
taken  by  the  brain  even  from  the  most  distant  nerve  in 
the  body.  But  the  auditory  nerve  has  in  some  things  a 
strange  advantage  and  prerogative  of  power  over  the 
others.  First,  the  distance  from  the  ear  to  the  brain  is 
shorter  than  that  of  any  other  of  the  sensitive  surfaces, 
so  the  time  taken  to  convey  the  impressions  of  sound  is 
less,  and  therefore  the  impact  more  direct.  This  meas- 
ured by  time  is  infinitesimal,  but  measured  by  emotional 
effect  it  counts  for  much.  Secondly,  the  vibrations  of 
sound  as  distinguished  from  the  vibrations  of  light,  and 
even  the  vibrations  of  touch,  which  are,  after  all, 
differently  local — the  vibrations  of  sound  induce  a  sym- 
pathetic vibration  on  every  nerve  in  the  body  ;  they  set  it 
going,  in  short,  as  the  strings  of  a  piano  are  set  going  by 
the  stroke  of  a  hammer  on  the  floor,  and  when  the  sound 
is  excessive  or  peculiar,  all  the  great  ganglionic  centres 
are  disturbed,  the  diaphragm  and  many  other  nerves  and 
muscles  are  influenced,  the  stomach  is  affected,  the 
spine  "creeps,"  as  we  say,  the  heart  quickens  and 
throbs  with  strong  beatings  in  the  throat.  Thus  a  curi- 
ously sympathetic  action  is  set  up  through  this  physical 
peculiarity  which  sound  has  of  shaking,  moving,  and  at 
times  causing  to  tremble  the  human  body. 

But  the  cause  of  the  sympathetic  action  of  the  great 
ganglionic  centres  under  the  pulsations  of  sound  lies 


AUDITORY    XEUVE.  67 

deeper  still.  It  is  to  be  found  in  the  fact  that  the  audi- 
tory nerve  is  closely  connected,  at  its  origin  in  the  me- 
dulla oblong  ata  of  the  brain,  with  that  of  the  important 
nervus  vagus  or  pneumogastric  supplying  the  heart, 
lungs,  and  the  most  important  abdominal  viscera.  It  is 
also  in  intimate  communication  with  the  branches  of  the 
great  sympathetic  nerve  from  the  ganglia  which  supply 
the  muscles  regulating  the  tension  of  the  ear's  drum,  and 
which  modify  the  effect  of  the  waves  of  sound  upon  it. 
And  these  branches,  again,  are  in  direct  communication 
with  the  vagus  and  the  great  ganglionic  centres,  control- 
ling the  action  of  the  heart  and  stomach.  Thus  excita- 
tion of  the  auditory  nerve  readily  agitates  these  close 
neighbors,  and  they  proceed  to  spread  the  influence  far 
and  wide  through  all  the  delicate  network  of  sympa- 
thetic nerve  telegraphy  which  pervades  the  entire  system. 
Thus  the  effect  of  sound  is  speedily  propagated  through 
myriad  side -channels,  until  the  whole  body  is  thrilling 
with  its  confluent  waves. 

Now  we  can  explain,  perhaps,  why  it  is  that  our  musi- 
cal sensations  are  different  in  small  rooms  and  large 
ones,  or,  to  speak  more  closely,  why  the  relations 
between  the  volume  of  sound  and  the  space  to  be  filled 
must  be  suitable  in  order  to  produce  the  right  effect.  I 
can  sit  close  to  a  piano  and  listen  to  a  "  Lied  ohne 
Worte."  I  can  take  in  every  inflection  of  touch  with 
ease,  not  a  refinement  is  lost ;  but  if  I  go  to  the  end  of 
a  long  room,  the  impact  is  less  direct,  the  pleasure  is  less 
intense  ;  the  player  must  then  exaggerate  all  his  effects, 
hence  a  loss  of  refinement  and  ease.  Public  players  and 
gingers  constantly  make  shipwreck  thus  in  private  rooms. 
Accustomed  to  vast  spaces,  they  roar  and  bang  until  the 
audience  is  deaf,  and  the  only  reason  why  the  unknow- 
ing applaud  on  such  occasions,  and  the  only  difference, 


C8  MY   MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

as  far  as  they  are  concerned,  between  the  professional 
and  the  amateur,  is  simply  that  the  first  is  so  much 
louder  than  the  second.  This  makes  them  clap  their 
hands  and  cry  "Bravo  !"  but  in  reality  they  are  ap- 
plauding a  defect. 

The  only  musical  sounds  which  really  master  vast 
spaces  like  the  Albert  Hall  are  those  of  a  mighty  organ 
or  an  immense  chorus.  The  Handel  Festival  choruses 
are  fairly  proportioned  to  the- Crystal  Palace,  but  on  one 
occasion,  when  a  terrific  thunderstorm  burst  over  Syden- 
ham  in  the  middle  of  Israel  in  Egypt,  every  one  beneath 
that  crystal  dome  felt  that,  acoustically,  the  peal  of 
thunder  was  very  superior  to  the  whole  power  of  the 
chorus,  because  the  relation  between  the  space  to  be  filled 
and  the  volume  of  sound  required  to  fill  it  was  iu  better 
proportion.  But  there  is  still  something  which  has  not 
yet  been  said  for  small  sounds  in  large  places.  Trans- 
port yourself  in  imagination  to  the  Albert  Hall  on  some 
night  when,  as  is  usually  the  case,  there  is  but  a  scanty 
orchestra,  and  presently  a  new  mystery  of  sound  will 
present  itself  to  you.  At  first  you  will  be  disappointed. 
Any  one  can  hear  that  the  hall  is  not  properly  occupied  by 
the  sound  ;  the  violins  should  be  trebled  at  least,  several 
of  the  wind  instruments  doubled,  etc.  You  think  you 
will  not  listen  to  this  charming  E  flat  symphony  of 
Mozart  ;  you  cannot  help  feeling  that  you  lose  a  delicate 
inflection  here,  a  staccato  there,  a  flute-tone,  a  pianis- 
simo on  the  drum,  or  a  whole  piece  of  counter  melody 
— owing  to  the  scattered  conditions  of  isolated  vibrations 
lost  in  space. 

But  you  have  still  something  to  learn,  something  like 
a  new  musical  truth,  which  few  people  seem  yet  to  have 
noticed.  Listen  !  The  sounds  from  the  band  reach 
you  too  late,  perhaps  ;  they  arc  not  simultaneous.  Tha 


SOUXD-FILTERINa.  69 

impact  on  the  ear  is  somewhat  feeble,  you  must  even 
strain  attentively  to  catch  what  is  passing  ;  but  the  more 
you  do  so  the  easier  it  becomes,  just  as  the  eye,  in  look- 
ing through  a  lens,  may  see  all  dim,  but  gaze  on  until 
the  objects  grow  sharp  and  clear.  The  nerves  of  the  eye 
have  adapted  themselves  to  the  new  conditions  ;  the 
longer  yen  look  the  better  you  see.  So  in  these  vast, 
uncomfortable  spaces,  the  longer  you  listen  the  better 
you  hear.  A  certain  special  training  is  required,  and 
then  gradually  a  new  quality  is  perceived — we  must  give 
the  process  a  new  name — "  sound  filtering."  From  this 
point  of  view,  which  it  requires  some  delicate  and  atten- 
tive ear-culture  to  appreciate,  new  delights  are  born  from 
the  defective  space  conditions  usually  complained  of.  I 
have  heard  the  voice  of  Madame  Lemmens-Sherrington 
in  the  extreme  distance  at  the  Crystal  Palace,  when  she 
•was  exerting  herself  to  the  utmost,  and  it  sounded  like  a 
voice  from  heaven,  full  of  unearthly,  far-away  sweetness  ; 
the  same  intensity  and  volume  in  a  small  room  would 
have  been  intolerable.  I  have  heard  Bottesini  on  the 
double-bass  in  the  open  air  with  similar  effect. 

Listen  to  an  orchestra  or  quartet,  however  fine,  in  a 
moderate -sized  room  ;  there  is  the  catgut,  the  rosin,  the 
Gcrape,  the  bite  of  horse-hair  on  strings  ;  the  earthly 
cannot  be  completely  got  rid  of.  But  space  will  filter  all 
that,  and  leave  nothing  but  a  kind  of  spiritual  disem- 
bodied sound,  like  the  tones  of  those  plugged  pipes  in 
the  organ  that  seem  to  steal  out  of  some  remote  cloud- 
land  with  a  certain  veiled  sweetness  that  makes  us  hold 
our  breath. 

Since  I  have  learned  to  listen  to  these  peculiar  effects 
in  all  their  strange  gradations,  a  new  class  of  musical  im- 
pressions has  been  revealed  to  me,  and  I  have  become 
much  reconciled  to  h caring  music  in  vast  spaces.  I  do 


70  MY    MUSICAL    MEMORIES. 

not  go  there  for  the  kind  of  normal  impressions,  for  the 
direct  study,  for  the  strong,  immediate  impact  gained 
from  music  in  a  moderately  sized  room — I  lose  much  of 
all  that  ;  but  I  gain  a  number  of  new  abnormal  effects, 
which  also  have  a  power  over  certain  hidden  depths  and 
distant  fastnesses  of  the  emotional  region. 

Music  has  a  vast  future  before  it.  "YVe  are  only  now 
beginning  to  find  out  some  of  its  uses.  With  the  one 
exception  of  its  obvious  and  admitted  helpfulness,  as  an 
adjunct  of  religious  worship,  as  a  vehicle  for  and  incen- 
tive of  religious  feeling,  I  had  almost  said  that  we  had  as 
yet  discovered  none  of  its  uses.  It  has  been  the  toy  of 
the  rich  ;  it  has  often  been  a  source  of  mere  degradation 
to  both  rich  and  poor  ;  it  has  been  treated  as  mere 
jingle  and  noise — supplying  a  rhythm  for  the  dance,  a 
kind  of  Terpsichorean  tomtom — or  serving  to  start  a 
Bacchanalian  chorus,  the  chief  feature  of  which  has 
certainly  not  been  the  music.  And  yet  those  who  have 
their  eyes  and  ears  open,  may  read  in  these  primitive  uses, 
while  they  run,  the  hints  of  music's  future  destiny  as  a 
vast  civilizer,  recreator,  health-giver,  work-inspirer,  arid 
purifier  of  man's  life.  The  horse  knows  what  he  owes 
to  his  bells.  The  factory  girls  have  been  instinctively 
forced  into  singing,  finding  in  it  a  solace  and  assistance 
in  work.  And  for  music,  the  health-giver,  what  an 
untrodden  field  is  there  !  Have  we  never  known  an  in- 
valid to  forget  pain  and  weariness  under  the  stimulus  of 
music  ?  Have  you  never  seen  a  pale  cheek  flush  up,  a 
dull  eye  sparkle,  an  alertness  and  vigor  take  possession 
of  the  whole  frame,  and  animation  succeed  to  apathy  ? 
What  does  all  this  mean  ?  It  means  a  truth  that  we 
have  not  fully  grasped,  a  truth  pregnant  with  vast 
results  to  body  and  mind.  It  means  that  music  at- 
tacks the  nervous  system  directly,  reaches  and  rouses 


MUSIC    AS    A    RESTORATIVE.  71 

•where  physic  and  change  of  air  can  neither  reach  nor 
rouse. 

Music  will  some  day  become  a  powerful  and  acknowl- 
edged therapeutic.  And  it  is  one  especially  appropri- 
ate to  this  excited  age.  Half  our  diseases,  some  physi- 
cians say  all  our  diseases,  come  from  disorder  of  the 
nerves.  How  many  ills  of  the  mind  precede  the  ills  of 
the  body  !  Boredom  makes  more  patients  than  fever. 
Want  of  interest  and  excitement,  stagnation  of  the  emo- 
tional life,  or  the  fatigue  of  overwrought  emotion,  lies 
at  the  root  of  half  the  ill-health  of  our  young  men  and 
women.  Can  we  doubt  the  power  of  music  to  break  Tip 
that  stagnation  ?  Or,  again,  can  we  doubt  its  power  to 
soothe  ?  to  recreate  an  overstrained  emotional  life,  by 
bending  the  bow  the  other  way  ?  There  are  moods  of 
exhausted  feeling  in  which  certain  kinds  of  music  would 
act  like  poison,  just  as  whip  and  spur  which  encourage 
the  racer  at  first,  tire  him  to  death  at  last.  There  are 
other  kinds  of  music  which  soothe,  and,  if  I  may  use 
the  word,  lubricate  the  worn  ways  of  the  nervous  cen- 
tres. You  will  ask  what  music  is  good  for  that  ?  We 
reply,  judgment  and  common-sense,  and,  above  all,  sym- 
pathy, affectional  and  musical  sympathy,  will  partly 
be  your  guide,  but  experience  must  decide.  Let 
some  friend  well  versed  in  the  divine  art  sit  at  the 
piano,  and  let  the  tired  one  lie  on  a  couch  and  pre- 
scribe for  herself  or  for  himself.  This  will  happen  : 
';Do  not  play  that  Tannhauser  overture  just  now, 
it  wears  me  out,  I  cannot  bear  it  ;  "  or,  "  Yes — 
sing  that  l  Du  bist  die  Ruh,'  and  after  that  I  must 
hear  Mendelssohn's  '  Notturno,'  out  of  the  Jtfid- 
summer  Night? s  Dream ;"  and  then — and  then — what 
must  come  next  must  be  left  to  the  tact  and  quick  sym- 
pathy of  the  musician.  I  have  known  cases  where  nn 


72  MY    MUSICAL    MEMORIES. 

hour  of  this  treatment  did  more  good  than  bottlefuls  of 
bark  or  pailfuls  of  globules  ;  but  I  do  not  wish  to  over- 
state the  case.  I  merely  plead  for  an  unrecognized 
truth,  and  I  point  to  a  New  Vocation — the  vocation  of 
the  Musical  Healer. 

How  many  a  girl  might  turn  her  at  present  uncared- 
for  and  generally  useless  musical  abilities  to  this  gentle 
and  tender  human  use.  Let  her  try.  At  the  end  of  the 
seance,  let  her  and  her  patient  note  the  abatement  of 
the  headache  brought  about  directly  by  the  counter  ex- 
citement of  a  nerve-current  set  up  by  music.  Let  her 
friend  admit  that  she  has  suffered  less  during  that  hour — 
the  mind  having  been  completely  called  off  from  tho 
contemplation  of  a  special  pain,  and  the  pain  meanwhile 
having  passed  or  abated.  There  are  cases  chiefly  con- 
nected with  disorders  of  the  spine,  cases  of  apathy, 
where  music  is  almost  the  only  thing  which  seems  to  stir 
the  torpid  nerves  and  set  up  a  commotion,  quickening 
the  heart  and  flushing  the  cheek.  Then,  I  say,  let 
music  open  the  shut  gate,  and  let  health  come  in  that 
way,  codestis  janitor  aulce.  But  I  want,  before  I  pass, 
to  fix  my  musical  healer  upon  the  reader's  mind.  She  is 
gentle  ;  she  is  glowing  with  health,  but  not  boisterous  ; 
she  has  a  quick  sympathy  for  pain  ;  she  has  a  cool,  soft 
hand  that  does  the  hot  brow  good  ;  she  rather  moves 
than  walks  ;  the  sound  of  her  footfall  is  seldom  heard. 
Oh,  Alma  !  the  fostering  one,  the  healing  presence,  you 
are  in  many  households,  but  you  hardly  know  your 
powers  ;  the  sick  bless  you  ;  they  love  to  hear  your 
voice  ;  but  days  and  weeks  pass,  and  you  never  exercise 
your  gifts  for  them.  You  are  a  beautiful  musician,  but 
your  music  would  not  make  you  the  healer  without 
your  tact  in  applying  it,  your  sympathy,  your  quick 
judgment,  your  watchfulness  of  effect,  your  faculty  of 


THE   MUSICAL   HEALER.  73 

giving  yourself  when  you  sing  and  when  you  play.  It 
is  the  union  of  musical  talent  with  personal  qualities  like 
yours  that  will  give  you  grace  to  apply  the  medicine  of 
music  to  disease, 

Have  you  ever  thought  of  that  ?  You  have  played 
casually  to  the  weary,  the  idle,  or  even  the  sick  ;  but 
you  have  not  with  reflection  played  to  refresh,  to  stimu- 
late, or  to  soothe  ;  and  you  cannot  do  this  all  at  once. 

1.  You  must  have  the  idea  of  doing  it :  that  is,  you 
must  conceive  of  music  as  a  therapeutic  art. 

2.  You  must  gain  a  certain  easy  command  of  a  wide 
range  of  compositions  that  you  may  select  your  remedies 
wisely. 

3.  You  must  take  care  to  establish  between  yourself 
and  your  patients  that  kindly  rapport  which  will  predis- 
pose them  to  listen  to  you  ;  it  must  be  the  hand  of 
something  like  a  friend  upon  the  white  keys  or  upon 
the  strings  of  a  zither,  an  instrument  of  heavenly  sooth- 
ing qualities,  as  of  harps  in  the  wind  at  sunset.     It  must 
be  the  voice  of  something  like  a  friend  ;  the  voice  that 
has  said  with  no  feigned  earnestness,  but  with  the  wide, 
warm  love  of  a  Christlike  nature,  "  I  wish  I  could  do 
you  good."     Such  a  voice  will  sing  well  and  pleasantly, 
and  bring  peace. 

4.  Self- training,   judgment,    and    experience     gener- 
ally.    The  music-healer  must  indeed  have  gifts  of  mind, 
but  hers  will  be  almost  as  much  a  vocation  to  be  learned 
as  that   of  nursing  itself.     She  must   study   different 
kinds   of  temperament   and   disease,    watch   and   write 
down  and  remember  the  effect  which  certain  pieces  or 
kinds  of  music  have  on  certain  temperaments.     J>nt  the 
fascination  of  the  new  calling  would  lie  in  the  delight  of 
its  exercise,  the  variety  and  endless  excitement  and  sur- 
prises of  its  results,  the  incessant  study  of  character,  the 


74  MY    MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

* 

constant  self -training  and  cultivation  of  sympathy  for  a 
definite  and  immediate  end,  and  in  the  intense  happiness 
of  feeling  that  upon  the  waves  of  heavenly  melody  and 
harmony  which  lifted  up  your  own  soul,  another's  pain 
and  distress  were  floating  away,  and  that  you  had  been 
the  active  agent  in  procuring  this  pleasure,  this  relief, 
this  recovery. 

Let  some  pen  more  competent  than  mine  expand  this 
new  doctrine  of  "  music  considered  as  a  therapeutic." 
If  it  found  support  from  any  well-accredited  medical 
authority,  with  what  faith  and  favor  would  it  be  re- 
ceived by  thousands  of  sufferers  !  with  what  alacrity 
would  spring  up  right  and  left  our  musical  healers, 
coveting  and  exercising  earnestly  the  best  gifts  of  char- 
acter and  training  !  It  would  not  be  long  before  we  had 
a  handbook  on  the  subject,  with  suggestions  for  a 
course  of  treatment  based  on  actual  experience. 

Music  is  not  only  a  body  healer  ;  it  is  a  mind  regula- 
tor.' The  great  educational  function  of  music  remains 
almost  to  be  discovered.  The  future  mission  of  music 
for  the  million  is  the  Discipline  of  Emotion. 

"What  is  the  ruin  of  art  ?     Ill-regulated  emotion. 

What  is  the  ruin  of  life  ?  Again,  ill-regulated  emo- 
tion. 

"What  mars  happiness?  What  destroys  manliness? 
What  sullies  womanhood  ?  What  checks  enterprise  ? 
What  spoils  success  ?  Constantly  the  same — ill-regu- 
lated emotion.  The  tongue  is  a  fire  ;  an  uncontrolled 
and  passionate  outburst  swallows  up  many  virtues  and 
blots  out  weeks  of  kindness. 

There  is  one  thing  more  important  than  knowing  self  ; 
it  is  governing  self.  There  is  one  thing  better  than 
crushing  impulse  ;  it  is  using  impulse.  The  life  of  the 
ascetic  is  half  true,  the  life  of  the  voluptuary  is  the  other 


THE    GREEKS      "MUSICAL7      DISCIPLINE.  75 

half  of  the  truth.  The  stoic  may  be  said  to  be  blind  at  least 
of  one  eye.  The  cynic  is  very  nearly  blind  of  both,  since 
the  power  and  the  passion  and  the  splendid  uses  of  exist- 
ence are  hidden  from  him,  and  all  these  go  wrong  in 
various  ways,  from  abusing,  misusing,  or  neglecting  the 
emotional  life. 

The  Greek  was  not  far  wrong  when  he  laid  such  stress 
on  gymnastics  and  music.  Of  music,  indeed,  in  its 
modern,  exhaustive,  and  subtle  developments,  as  the 
language  of  the  emotions,  he  knew  nothing  ;  but  his 
faint  guess  was  with  a  certain  fine  and  unerring  instinct 
in  the  right  direction  ;  shame  upon  us  that,  in  the  blaze 
of  modern  music,  we  have  almost  missed  its  deepest 
meaning  !  The  Greek  at  least  understood  how  sound 
regulated  motion,  which  is,  after  all,  only  the  physical 
expression  of  emotion.  Not  a  procession,  not  a  social 
gathering,  not  a  gymnasium,  nay,  not  even  an  impor- 
tant oration,  was  thought  complete  without  the  introduc- 
tion of  musical  sound  ;  and  that  not  as  a  mere  jingle  or 
pastime,  but  to  regulate  the  order,  the  variety,  the  in- 
tensity of  bodily  motions,  actions,  and  words,  so  that 
throughout  there  might  be  an  elaborate  discipline  carried 
on  through  musical  sound — a  discipline  which,  thus 
learned  at  the  schools,  met  the  Greek  again  at  every 
turn  in  his  social  and  political  life,  and  ended  by  making 
his  earth-life  that  rounded  model  of  physical  and  intel- 
lectual harmony  and  perfection  which  have  made  at  once 
the  despair  and  wonder  of  sculptors,  poets,  and  philoso- 
phers of  all  ages. 

And  we,  living  in  the  full  development  of  this  divine 
art  of  music,  put  it  to  less  practical  uses  than  the  Greek, 
who  never  went  beyond  music  as  a  rhythmic  and  melodic 
regulator  of  dancing,  feasting,  and  oratory  ! 

It  remains  for  us  to  take  up  the  pregnant  hint,  and 


76  MY    MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

claim  modern  music  as  the  great  organ  of  emotional  cult- 
ure and  emotional  discipline.  This  practical  view  of 
the  unique  and  perfect  functions  of  the  musical  art  is,  I 
think,  sufficiently  new  to  require  a  little  further  explana- 
tion. 

"How,"  it  will  be  asked,  "apart  from  mere  pleas- 
ure— pleasure,  if  you  will,  of  a  harmless  and  elevating 
kind — am  I  a  bit  better  for  the  hearing  of  music  ?" 

In  answering  this  question,  I  leave  out  the  effect 
produced  on  bodily  health  through  the  agitation  of 
the  nervous  centres  by  musical  sound,  as  dwelt  upon 
above. 

I  will  come  to  close  quarters  again  with  Music  and 
Morals,  and  I  will  show  how  "hearing  music  in  the  right 
way  gets  up,  as  it  were,  the  steam  power  of  emotion, 
collects  it,  concentrates  it,  and  then  puts  it  through  such 
innumerable  stages  of  discipline  that  the  very  force  of 
emotion  which,  allowed  to  run  wild,  brings  ruin  into 
life,  grows,  through  the  right  hearing  of  great  and  skil- 
ful music,  docile,  controlled,  indefinitely  plastic,  or  at 
the  call  of  the  will,  resistless  in  might. 

Music,  in  short,  is  bound,  when  properly  used  and 
understood,  to  train  us  in  the  exercise  of  our  emotions, 
as  the  gymnasium  trains  us  in  the  exercise  of  our  limbs. 
The  Greek  understood  both  these  uses  ;  we  probably  un- 
derstand  neither. 

First,  then,  music  rouses  the  emotions.  Inward  ac- 
tivities, long  dormant  or  never  before  awakened,  are 
called  up,  and  become  new  powers  within  the  breast ; 
for,  remember,  emotion  nerves  for  action.  The  stupid- 
est horse  that  goes  up  hill  to  the  sound  of  bells,  the  timid- 
est  soldier  that  marches  to  battle  with  fife  and  drum,  the 
most  delicate  girl  who  spins  round  tireless  in  the  dance, 
the  poorest  laborer  who  sings  at  his  work — any  of  them 


TALE    OF   A    "SOXQ    WITHOUT    WORDS."  77 

is  good  enough  to  prove  that  music  rouses  and  sustains 
emotion. 

But,  secondly,  music  disciplines  and  controls  emotion.   V 

That  is  the  explanation  of  the  art  of  music,  as  dis- 
tinguished from  the  mere  power  of  the  musical  sound. 
You  can  rouse  with  a  stroke  ;  but  to  guide,  to  moder- 
ate, to  control,  to  raise  and  depress,  to  combine,  to  work 
out  a  definite  scheme  involving  appropriate  relations  and 
proportions  of  force,  and  various  mobility — for  this  you 
require  the  subtle  machinery  of  an  art ;  and  the  direct 
machinery  for  stirring  up  and  regulating  emotion  is  the 
wonderful  vibratory  mechanism  created  by  the  art  of 
music. 

I  wish  to  give  here  a  short  example  of  the  way  in 
which  a  train  of  abstract  emotion,  capable  of  being  fitted 
to  different  ideas,  or  capable  of  underlying  more  than 
one  series  of  mental  events  (so  long  as  the  relations  of 
them  be  similar  and  parallel),  can  be  roused  and  devel- 
oped in  a  fixed  artistic  form  by  music.  My  present 
limits  will  not  allow  me  to  take  one  of  the  great  sym- 
phonies of  Beethoven  or  Mendelssohn  for  this.  I  will 
select  a  "  Lied  ohne  Worte  ;"  let  us  take,  for  instance, 
Xo.  10,  the  fourth  Lied  of  the  Second  Book.  I  will 
mention  the  bars  by  their  numbers,  instead  of  using 
technical  terms,  such  as  a  key  of  D  or  F,  subdominant, 
tonic,  etc.  It  is  difficult  to  describe  mental  states  apart 
from  particular  thoughts  ;  but  as  far  as  possible  we  will 
try  to  do  so,  and  so  express  the  consciousness  of  a  state 
of  mind  which  might  be  equally  appropriate  to  several 
separate  and  distinct,  though  similar  and  parallel,  trains 
cf  thought. 

Understand  what  I  mean  by  similar  and  parallel  trains 
of  thought.  Let  me  even  appeal  to  the  eye,  and  put  my 
similar  thoughts  in  parallel  columns,  thus  : 


78  MY   MUSICAL  MEMORIES. 

I.  Man  losing  his  temper.  I.  Sea  ruffled  with  wind. 

II.  Man  lost  his  temper.  II.  Sea  convulsed. 

III.  Smashes  the  furniture.  III.  Thunder  and  lightning. 

IV.  Is  appeased  by  wife.  IV.  Blue  sky,  wind  drops. 

V.  All  is  forgiven  and  forgotten.         V.  Sun  breaks  out,  sea  calms. 

One  and  the  same  train  of  emotion  or  general  cast  of 
feeling  may  fitly  underlie  such  two  progressive  scenes  ; 
but  the  events  must  in  every  case  be  similar  in  tone  and 
run  parallel  ;  only  in  this  sense  does  music,  as  it  is  some- 
times loosely  said,  mean  all  sorts  of  things  to  different 
people. 

I  now  return  to  an  emotional  analysis  of  Lied  IV.,  of 
Book  II.,  Mendelssohn.  With  the  first  bars  of  rapid 
semi-quavers,  increasing  from  p  to  sf,  we  are  thrown 
into  a  state  of  restless  emotion,  dashed  (bars  4,  5,  6) 
with  suspense,  as  when  one  heaves  and  holds  his  breath 
at  a  passing  thought  of  some  agitating  possibility ; 
(7,  8,  9,  10),  the  flash  of  suspense  passes  off,  lowering 
back  the  tone  of  mind  to  its  first  state  ;  that  state, 
instead  of  subsiding  as  before,  passes  into  a  reflex  sort  of 
reasoning  upon  itself,  as  though  one  said  (15,  16, 17,  £18j, 
"But  why  should  I  disquiet  myself  in  vain  ??' 
(£18,  19,  20).  "  I  will  resist,  I  will  shake  it  off  (21)  ;  I 
will  be  free  (22) ;  the  cloud  has  passed  (23)  ;  I  see  my  joy 
(24,  25,  26,  27,  28,  29,  30).  ()  ecstatic  vision  !  I  lose 
myself  in  this  splendid  revelation,  I  float  out  upon  the 
tide  of  triumph.  Now  I  rest,  bathed  in  tranquil  peace 
and  perfect  satisfaction  (31,  32,  £33)  ;  I  prolong  the 
dream."  But  already  the  ecstatic  glow  has  cooled 
(£33,  34,  35,  36),  a  faint  touch  of  earth  bitterness,  a 
misgiving  (D  sharp)  has  crept  in  (37,  38,  39,  40,  41,  42), 
r*nd  is  confirmed  until  the  vision  of  bliss  is  almost  oblit- 
' crated,  and  the  emotion  is  in  danger  of  sinking  back  at 
once  to  its  first  condition  of  morbid  restlessness  ;  but  that 


LIED    OHXE   WORTE,    BOOK    II.  79 

would  be  monotonous  (45).  At  this  point  it  is,  therefore, 
caught  by  new  reflex  action  of  the  feelings,  and  a  strug- 
gle takes  place  (46,  47,  48,  49,  50,  51),  represented  by 
the  opening  subject  struggling  up  in  the  bass,  checked, 
then  struggling  up  in  the  treble,  checked  at  sf,  and  then 
creso.j  struggling  up  (51)  once  more.  Then  there  is  a 
pause,  emotion  is  at  a  standstill,  and  at  last  grows  almost 
tepid  and  indifferent;  dropping  at  57,  p  and  6foV&.,  al- 
most listless,  -when  at  60  the  struggle  recommences  with 
fresh  violence,  the  great  effort  of  the  mind  to  cast  out 
the  restless,  passionate  broodings  of  the  first  page  (60 
to  71)  produces  a  storm  of  conflicting  emotions,  in. 
which  now  one  side,  now  another  seems  uppermost,  till 
at  last  the  mind,  trembling  on  the  morbid  verge,  passes 
over  the  line  with  a  kind  of  wilful  and  helpless  self-sur- 
render ;  but  this  time  the  experiences  through  which  it 
has  passed  make  it  impossible  quite  to  repeat  the  morbid 
and  restless  series,  and  (72)  only  half  the  first  subject  is 
given,  the  emotion  is  hampered,  it  does  not  run  easily, 
it  cannot  get  on  ;  then  (76)  the  same  phrase  over  again, 
piu  f,  with  growing  impatience.  A  change  of  some  sort 
is  evidently  at  hand  (81)  ;  the  old  subject  is  tossed  away 
as  worthless  and  unfit  for  the  purpose,  as  the  spirit  feels 
itself  breathed  upon  once  more,  and  held  by  some  new 
force,  through  a  series  of  bars  (81  to  87),  until  expec- 
tancy is  crowned,  and  with  a  crescendo  of  ascending 
octaves,  which  makes  us  fairly  hold  our  breath,  while 
the  action  of  the  pulse  is  rapidly  quickened,  suddenly — 
but  this  time  on  a  higher  pitch,  and  with  quite  bewil- 
dering power  of  effect — the  glory  breaks  again  upon  the 
soul,  and  we  seem  "  rapt  from  the  fickle  and  the  frail," 
and  caught  up  into  that  splendid  air  of  joy  and  bounding 
triumph.  The  poor  shaken  and  earth-worn  spirit  is 
thus  held  for  a  little  space  in  Paradise.  It  is  its  last 


80  MY    MUSICAL    MEMOIUES. 

gleam  of  perfect  peace.  Already  at  103,  the  vision  has 
well-nigh  faded  out  ;  at  111  the  light  of  common  day 
has  been  fairly  reached,  and  the  perilous  struggle 
between  morbid  brooding  and  noble  endurance  is  in 
danger  of  recommencing.  Four  times,  at  119,  123,  125, 
and  126,  the  morbid  passage  reminding  us  of  the  open- 
ing phrase,  knocks  (ff)  passionately  for  admittance,  and 
is  sternly  negatived  by  the  bass.  At  129,  130,  131,  there 
is  a  very  natural  pause  of  brief  exhaustion  &tp.  At  132 
the  emotion  is  stirred,  but  this  time  less  strongly  ;  we 
feel  that  a  new  and  more  normal  life  is  now  going  to 
open  out,  into  which  indeed  we  are  not  permitted  to 
enter,  for  the  Lied  draws  to  its  close.  The  vision  of 
triumph  has  had  its  own  chastening  and  purifying  effect, 
although  the  triumph  of  joy  is  evidently  not  near  ;  still 
the  restless  and  passionate  mood  of  anxious  brooding, 
which  so  unfits  for  the  life  that  has  still  to  be  lived  out, 
has  also  passed.  The  last  unemphatic  memory  of  it  occurs 
at  138  ;  not  even  hal/i\\Q  first  subject,  as  before,  is  repeat- 
ed— only  onebar  of  it,  and  the  emotion  is  then  left  unim- 
passioned  and  suspended  on  a  long  D,  the  same  chord  for 
six  bars,  without  change  in  treble  or  bass,  serving  to 
close  the  piece,  and  leaving  the  mind  in  a  self-contained 
and  reconciled,  if  not  a  happy  mood,  ready  now  to  enter 
without  harrowing  preoccupation  upon  the  more  ordi- 
nary phases  and  pursuits  of  life. 

Now  if  music  does  really  rouse  and  then  take  in  hand 
and  rule  at  its  will,  and  thereby  teach  us  to  rule,  the 
emotions,  it  is  obvious  that  we  are,  when  we  hear 
music  intelligently  and  sympathetically,  actually  culti- 
vating abstract  habits  of  mind  which  may  afterward  be 
transferred  as  trained  forces  to  the  affairs  of  daily  life. 
As  the  study  of  Euclid  trains  the  mind  in  the  abstract, 
£0  the  study  of  music  trains  the  emotions  in  the  abstract. 


EFFECT   OF   THE    "MESSIAH"    ON  THE   MASSES.         81 

If  you  want  to  touch  and  train  this  emotional  life,  music 
is  your  all-powerful  ally. 

The  time  is  not  distant  when  this  great  truth  will  be 
understood  and  practised  in  connection  with  our  toiling 
masses — our  artisans,  our  poor,  our  laborers,  our  degraded 
denizens  of  back  streets,  cellars,  and  foul  alleys.  There 
are  millions  whose  only  use  of  the  emotional  life  is  base, 
undisciplined,  and  degraded.  Pleasure  with  many  means 
crime  ;  restraint,  the  real  handmaid  of  pleasure,  is  un- 
known ;  system,  order,  harmony  in  their  feelings,  habits 
of  self-control,  checking  the  impulses,  moderating  and 
economizing  the  feelings,  guiding  them  to  powerful  pur- 
poses and  wise  ends  and  wholesome  joys — of  all  this  our 
masses  are  chiefly  ignorant  ;  yet  if  what  I  have  main- 
tained be  true,  all  this  music  would  mightily  help  to 
teach  and  to  give. 

I  have  known  the  oratorio  of  the  Messiah,  draw  the  * 
lowest  dregs  of  Whitechapel  into  a  church  to  hear  it, 
and  during  the  performance  sobs  have  broken  forth  fron? 
the  silent  and  attentive  throng.  "Will  any  one  say  tha* 
for  these  people  to  have  their  feelings  for  once  put- 
through  such  a  noble  and  long-sustained  exercise  as  that, 
could  be  otherwise  than  beneficial  ?  If  such  perform- 
ances of  both  sacred  and  secular  music  were  more  fre- 
quent, we  should  have  less  drunkenness,  less  wife-beat- 
ing, less  spending  of  summer  gains,  less  pauperism  in 
winter.  People  get  drunk  because  they  have  nothing 
else  to  do  ;  they  beat  their  wives  because  their  minds 
are  narrow,  their  tastes  brutal,  their  emotions,  in  a 
word,  ill-regulated  ;  they  spend  their  wages  because 
they  have  no  self-control,  and  dawdle  in  public-houses, 
where  money  must  be  spent,  simply  in  the  absence  of 
all  other  resources  ;  and  they  starve  in  winter  because 
they  have  not  acquired  the  habit  of  steady  work,  which 


82  MY   MUSICAL   MEMOKIES. 

is  impossible  without  study  and  wholesome  recreation — 
or  that  steady  thrift  and  self-control  which  is  impossible 
apart  from  disciplined  emotion. 

The  question  of  music  for  the  people  will  some  day 
become  a  great  government  question.  A  few  thousands 
spent  on  promoting  bands,  cheap  and  good,  accessible 
and  respectable,  would  save  the  country  millions  in  poor- 
rates.  I  do  not  say  that  music  will  ever  shut  up  all  our 
prisons  and  workhouses  ;  but  I  venture  to  believe  that  as 
a  chief  and  sovereign  means  of  rousing,  satisfying,  and 
recreating  the  emotions,  it  would  go  far  to  diminish  the 
number  of  paupers  and  criminals.  It  would  help  them 
to  save,  it  would  keep  them  from  drink,  it  would  recreate 
them  wholesomely,  and  teach  them  to  govern  their  feel- 
ings— to  use,  and  not  invariably  abuse,  their  emotions. 

One  Saturday  afternoon  I  stood  outside  a  public- 
house,  and  saw  the  groups  of  men  standing  round  the 
door.  Those  that  came  to  the  door  did  not  enter  ;  those 
who  came  forth  with  lighted  pipes,  paused  ;  a  slatternly 
girl  or  two,  with  a  ragged  child  in  her  arms  ;  a  wife  who 
had  followed  her  husband  to  look  after  the  Saturday 
wages,  which  were  going  straight  to  the  gin-shop  ;  a 
costermonger  with  his  cart  drew  up  ;  the  idle  cabmen 
came  across  the  road  ;  even  a  few  dirty,  stone-throwing, 
dog- worrying  boys  ceased  their  sport  ;  and  two  or  three 
milliners'  "  Hands"  stood  still.  And  what  was  it  all 
about  ?  I  blush  for  my  country  !  A  wretched  cornet 
with  a  harp,  no  two  strings  of  which  were  in  tune,  the 
harpist  trying  wildly  to  follow  "  The  Last  Rose  of  Sum- 
mer" with  but  two  chords,  and  always  in  with  the  wrong 
one.  The  weather  was  bitterly  cold,  the  men's  hands 
were  in  their  pockets,  the  girls  shivered  ;  but  they  were 
all  taking  their  solace.  This  was  the  best  music  they 
could  get  :  it  seemed  to  soothe  and  refresh  them.  Oh, 


GIVE   THE    PEOPLE   MUSIC.  83 

that  I  could  have  led  those  people  to  some  near  winter 
pavilion,  or  even  a  cold  garden,  where  they  could  have 
walked  about  and  heard  a  popular  selection  of  tunes,  an 
overture,  anything,  by  a  common  but  excellent  German 
band  !  What  good  that  would  have  done  them  !  How 
they  would  have  enjoyed  it  1  And  supposing  that  every 
Saturday  they  could  look  forward  to  it,  admission  two- 
pence apiece,  the  men  would  be  there  with  their  wives 
and  children  ;  they  would  spend  less  on  the  whole 
family  than  they  would  have  squandered  on  themselves 
in  one  drunken  afternoon.  They  could  meet  their 
friends,  have  their  chat  and  glass  of  ale,  or  cup  of 
coffee,  in  the  winter  garden  ;  they  would  go  home  sober  ; 
and  being  satisfied,  recreated,  having  had  their  exercise 
and  company,  would  be  more  likely  to  go  to  bed  early 
than  to  get  druak  late.  Surely  all  this  is  better  than 
boozing  in  public-houses. 

Oh,  what  a  vast,  what  a  beneficent  future  has  music 
in  the  time  to  come  !  Let  its  true  power  and  use  be 
once  understood  ;  let  some  one  man  who  loves  the  peo- 
ple, and  is  willing  to  consult  their  tastes  without  pander- 
ing to  them,  open  a  promenade  for  the  lower  stratum  of 
the  population,  at  a  low  price,  on  Saturday  afternoon, 
and  let  us  see  the  result.  Let  the  musical  part  be  under 
some  fit  and  intelligent  musical  dictator,  and  let  some 
able  and  sympathetic  administrator,  intimately  and 
wisely  in  sympathy  with  the  masses — a  Miss  Octavia 
Hill — organize  the  refreshments,  the  admissions  by  pay- 
ment, the  general  distribution  of  tickets,  passes,  adver- 
tisements, accommodation,  etc.  Let  this  be  tried  fairly 
—at  first,  of  course,  with  an  outlay  of  charitable  funds 
— and  then  I  prophesy  four  things  : 

1.  It  will  soon  be  self -supporting. 


84  MY   MUSICAL  MEMORIES. 

2.  It  will  hare  a  definite  and  marked  influence  upon 
the  crime  and  intemperance  of  the  district. 

3.  It  will  promote  thrift,  and  increase  the  sum,  now 
lamentably  small,  of  the  people's  wholesome  pleasures. 

4.  It  will  become  a  national  institution,  and    spread 
in  a  short  time  throughout  the  length  and  breadth  of  the 
land. 

Then  shall  music,  ceasing  to  be  the  luxury  of  the  rich 
and  the  degradation  of  the  poor,  open  the  golden  gates 
of  a  wider  and  a  happier  realm  of  recreation  for  the 
masses.  In  its  wake  might  follow,  under  similar  man- 
agement, a  regenerated  and  popular  drama,  pictorial 
exhibitions,  short  and  systematic  lectures  to  groups  in 
separate  alcoves,  electrical  experiments,  the  microscope, 
the  telescope,  and  a  thousand  other  elevating  and  instruc- 
tive seances — to  each  seance  one  halfpenny  apiece  extra, 
or  one  penny  to  frank  for  the  whole. 

Once  get  the  people  together  by  the  power  of  music, 
you  can  mould  them  ;  one  closed  chamber  of  their  minds  ^ 
after  another  might  be  unlocked  ;  and  were  the  scheme 
conducted  with  ability,  and  carefully  watched,  we  should 
soon  hail  the  dawn  of  a  new  era  of  popular  enlighten- 
ment and  genial  instruction  combined  with  an  almost 
boundless  variety  of  accessible,  innocent,  and  elevating 
enjoyment. 


CHAPTEK  III. 

OLD    VIOLINS. 

THE  construction,  the  history,  the  sound  of  the  vio- 
lin would  make  a  romantic  work  in  three  volumes  "as 
sensational  as,  and  far  more  instructive  than,  most 
novels.  The  very  pine-wood  smells  good,  to  begin 
with.  The  forests  of  the  Southern  Tyrol,  which  now 
teem  with  saplings,  when  the  old  violins  were  made, 
from  1520  to  1750,  still  abounded  in  those  ancient  trees, 
so  eagerly  and  often  vainly  sought  out  by  modern  build- 
ers, and  which  the  old  viol-makers  found  to  possess  the 
finest  acoustic  properties. 

The  mighty  timbers  were  felled  in  late  summer.  They 
came  in  loose  floating  rafts  from  the  banks  of  the  Garda  ; 
they  floated  down  the  Mincio  to  Mantua.  Brescia  was 
in  the  midst  of  them.  From  Como  they  found  their 
way  to  Milan,  and  from  Lake  Maggiore  direct,  via  the 
Ticino  and  the  Po,  to  Cremona. 

TThat  market  days  were  those  !  What  a  timber  feast 
to  select  from  ;  and  what  cunning  lovers  and  testers  of 
wood  were  the  old  viol-makers,  the  fathers  of  the  vio- 
lin !  The  rough  heaps  of  pine,  pear,  lemon,  and  ash, 
beloved  of  the  Brescians — of  maple  and  sycamore,  pre- 
ferred by  the  Cremonese — lay  steaming  dry  and  hard  in 
a  few  hours  beneath  the  sun  of  the  southern  Alps. 

Before  a  beam  was  bought,  the  master  passed  his  hand 
over  the  surface.  He  could  tell  by  touch  the  density  of 
its  fibre.  Then  he  would  take  two  equal  slips  of  deal 


86  MY    MUSICAL    MEMORIES. 

and  weigh  them,  and  judge  of  their  porousness.  The 
very  appearance  of  the  wood  would  guide  him  to  its 
probable  vibrational  powers.  Then  he  would,  per- 
chance, before  leaving  the  market,  cut  strips  of  equal 
length,  and  elicit  their  relative  intensities  by  striking 
their  tongues.  He  would  often  select  for  a  definite 
purpose,  looking  for  a  soft,  porous  piece,  or  a  specially 
hard  and  close-fibred  grain — a  certain  appearance  he 
would  instinctively  associate  with  rare  acoustic  properties. 
The  seller  would  be  eager  to  find  the  pieces,  useless  to 
other  customers,  invaluable  to  an  Andreas  Amati,  for  he 
was  sure  that  the  viol-maker  would  buy  what  suited  him 
at  a  long  price.  After  the  lapse  of  nearly  two  centuries, 
we  can  trace  such  favorite  beams  by  peculiar  ctains, 
freckles,  and  grainings.  When,  after  cutting  up  a  dozen 
trees,  once  in  two  or  three  years  a  piece  of  fine  acoustic 
wood  was  found,  it  was  kept  for  the  master's  best  work. 
The  same  pine-beam  will  crop  up  in  the  bellies  of  Strad- 
ivarius  at  an  interval  of  years.  Another  can  be  traced 
in  the  violins  of  Joseph  Guarnerius,  and  after  his  death 
Carlo  Bergonzi  got  hold  of  the  remnants  of  it,  and  we 
detect  it  by  a  certain  stain  in  the  fibre. 

The  anxiety  to  retain  every  particle  of  a  precious 
piece  of  wood  is  seen  in  the  subtle  and  delicate  patching 
and  repatching  of  backs  and  bellies.  The  seams  are  only 
discoverable  by  a  microscope,  so  perfect  is  the  cabinet 
work.  How  different  from  the  modern  maker  at  Ma- 
drid, whom  Tarisio  relates  as  having  to  repair  a  damaged 
Stradivarius,  and,  finding  the  belly  cracked,  sent  it 
home  with  a  brand-new  one  of  his  own  manufacture  ! 

The  properties  of  fine  violin  wood  are  very  myste- 
rious. Only  to  be  surrounded  by  a  selection  of  fine  vio- 
lins is  an  experience  which  cannot  be  forgotten.  Sit  in 
the  room  with  them  with  your  eyes  shut,  and,  although 


VIOLIX    AXATOMY.  8? 

you  may  not  touch  one  of  them,  you  will  soon  be  aware 
of  ghostly  presences.  Even  the  old  seasoned  backs  and 
bellies  of  unstrung  violins  are  full  of  the  strangest 
echoes,  and  Mr.  Hill,  the  violin-maker,  tolls  me  that  as 
he  sits  in  his  workroom,  where  old  violin  carcasses  are 
piled  in  hundreds  on  shelves  and  cupboards  pell-mell, 
ribs,  bellies,  and  backs,  he  constantly  hears  them  mutter- 
ing and  humming  to  themselves,  in  answer  to  his  tools, 
the  stroke  of  his  hammer,  the  sound  of  his  voice. 

Let  us  now  look  at  the  violin  anatomically.  It  is.  a 
miracle  of  construction,  and  as  it  can  bo  taken  to  pieces, 
put  together,  patched,  and  indefinitely  repaired,  it  is 
almost  indestructible.  It  is,  as  one  may  say,  as  light  as 
a  feather  and  as  strong  as  a  horse.  It  is  composed  of 
fifty-eight  or  seventy  pieces  of  wood.  Wood  about  as 
thick  as  a  half-crown,  by  exquisite  adjustments  of  parts 
and  distribution  of  strain,  resists  for  several  centuries  an 
enormous  pressure.  The  belly  of  soft  deal,  the  back  of 
hard  sycamore,  are  united  by  six  sycamore  ribs,  sup- 
ported by  twelve  blocks  with  linings. 

It  appears  that  the  quick  vibrations  of  the  hard  wood, 
married  to  the  slower  sound-waves  of  the  soft,  produce 
the  mellow  but  reedy  timbre  of  the  good  violin.  If  all 
the  wood  were  hard,  you  would  get  the  tone  light  and 
metallic  ;  if  all  soft,  it  would  be  muffled  and  tubby. 

There  is  every  conceivable  variety  of  fibre  both  in 
hard  and  soft  wood.  The  thickness  of  back  and  belly  is 
not  uniform  ;  each  should  be  thicker  toward  the  middle. 
But  how  thick  ?  and  shaved  thin  in  what  proportions 
toward  the  sides  ?  The  cunning  workman  alone  knows. 
As  a  rule,  if  the  wood  be  hard  he  will  cut  it  thin  ;  if 
soft,  thick  ;  but  KQW  thin  and  how  thick,  and  exactly 
where,  is  nowhere  writ  down,  nor  can  be,  because  no- 
where for  handy  reference  are  recorded  the  densities 


88  MY    MUSICAL    .MEMORIES. 

of  all  pine  and  pear  and  sycamore  and  maple  planks  that 
have  or  shall  come  into  the  maker's  hands. 

The  sound-bar  is  a  strip  of  pine  wood  running  ob- 
liquely under  the  left  foot  of  the  bridge.  It  not  only 
strengthens  the  belly  for  the  prodigious  pressure  of  the 
four  strings,  whose  direction  it  is  made  to  follow,  for 
vibrational  reasons,  but  it  is  the  nervous  system  of  the 
violin.  It  has  to  be  cut  and  adjusted  to  the  whole 
framework  ;  a  slight  mistake  in  position,  a  looseness,  an 
inequality  or  roughness  of  finish,  will  produce  that  hol- 
low teeth-on-edge  growl  called  the  "wolf." 

It  takes  the  greatest  cunning  and  a  life  of  practical 
study  to  know  how  long,  how  thick,  and  exactly  where 
the  sound-bar  should  be  in  each  instrument.  The 
health  and  morale  of  many  an  old  violin  has  been  im- 
paired by  its  nervous  system  being  ignorantly  tampered 
with.  Every  old  violin,  with  the  exception  of  the 
"  Pucelle,"  has  had  its  sound-bar  replaced,  or  it  would 
never  have  endured  the  increased  tightness  of  strings 
brought  in  with  our  modern  pitch.  Many  good  forge- 
ries have  thus  been  exposed,  for  in  taking  the  reputed 
Stradivarius  to  pieces,  the  rough  clumsy  work  inside, 
contrasting  with  the  exquisite  finish  of  the  old  masters, 
betrays  at  once  the  coarseness  of  a  body  that  never  really 
held  the  soul  of  a  Cremona. 

The  sound-post,  a  little  pine  prop  like  a  short  bit  of 
cedar  pencil,  is  the  soul  of  the  violin.  It  is  placed  up- 
right inside,  about  one  eighth  of  an  inch  to  the  back  of 
the  right  foot  of  the  bridge,  and  through  it  pass  all 
the  heart-throbs  or  vibrations  generated  between  the 
back  and  the  belly.  There  the  short  waves  and  the 
long  waves  meet  and  mingle.  It  is  the  material  throb- 
bing centre  of  that  pulsating  air  column,  defined  by 
the  walls  of  the  violin,  but  propagating  those  mystic 


STRAIN    OF    STRINGS    AND    NECK.  89 

Bonnd-waves  that  ripple  fortli  in  sweetness  upon  ten 
thousand  ears. 

Days  and  weeks  may  be  spent  on  the  adjustment  of 
this  tiny  sound-post.  Its  position  exhausts  the  patience 
of  the  repairer,  and  makes  the  joy  or  the  misery  of  the 
player.  As  a  rough  general  rule,  the  high-built  violin 
will  take  it  nearer  the  bridge  than  the  low-built,  and  a 
few  experiments  will  at  once  show  the  relation  of  the 
"  soul  "  to  tightness,  mellowness,  or  intensity  of  sound. 
For  the  amateur  there  is  but  one  rnotto  :  "  Leave  well 
alone. ' ' 

The  prodigious  strain  of  the  strings  is  resisted  first  by 
the  arch  of  the  belly  ;  then  by  the  ribs,  strengthened 
with  the  upright  blocks,  the  pressure  among  which  is 
evenly  distributed  by  the  linings  which  unite  them  ; 
and,  lastly,  by  the  supporting  sound-bar,  sound- post, 
and  back.  Many  people,  on  observing  the  obvious  join 
between  the  neck  and  tlie  head  of  old  violins,  fancy  that 
the  head  is  not  the  original.  It  is  the  neck  that  is  new. 
All  the  necks  of  old  violins  have  thus  been  lengthened, 
and  the  old  heads  refixed,  for  the  simple  reason  that 
Corelli's  finger-board  will  not  do  for  Pagan ini,  and 
mightier  execution  requires  an  ampler  field  for  its  eccen- 
tric excursions. 

The  scroll,  or  head,  fitted  with  its  four  simple  screws 
of  ebony,  box,  or  rosewood,  is  the  physiognomy  of  the 
violin.  At  first  all  fiddle-heads  look  alike — as  do  all 
pug-dogs,  or  all  negroes,  and,  indeed,  England,  "Wales, 
Italy,  Holland,  and  most  other  countries  have  their 
general  faces  ;  so  have  violins — but  a  practised  eye  sees 
the  difference  at  a  glance.  Look  for  half  an  hour  every 
day  at  a  late  Joseph  Guarnerius,  an  early  Nicholas 
Ainati,  and  a  grand  pattern  Strad.,  and  you  will  be  sur- 
prised that  you  could  ever  have  confounded  their 


90  1IY   MUSICAL   MEMOKIES. 

forms.  What  is  called  the  '''throwing"  of  the  scroll 
betrays  the  master's  style  like  handwriting,  and  he  lays 
down  his  type  in  every  curve,  groove,  and  outline.  A 
keen  eye  can  almost  see  the  favorite  tool  he  worked 
with,  and  how  his  hand  went.  These  subtleties  are  like 
the  painter's  "touch,"  they  can  hardly  be  imitated  so 
as  to  deceive  one  who  has  mastered  the  individual  work 
of  the  great  makers.  " 

The  ebony  finger-board  must  be  nicely  fitted,  as  also 
the  neck,  to  the  hand  of  the  player  ;  on  its  even  smooth- 
ness and  true  curve  depends  the  correct  stopping  of  the 
notes.  You  cannot,  for  instance,  stop  fifths  in  tune  on 
a  rough  or  uneven  finger-board.  The  button  to  which 
the  tail-piece  is  fastened  is  full  of  style,  and  not,  like  the 
pegs,  a  thing  to  be  dropped  and  changed  at  will  ;  it  is  a 
critical  part  of  the  violin,  takes  a  good  third  of  the 
leverage  of  the  whole  strain,  is  fixed  like  a  vice,  rooted 
in  the  very  adamant  of  the  wood,  carefully  finished,  and 
cut  round,  pointed,  or  flat,  according  to  the  taste  of  the 
maker. 

The  purfling,  more  or  less  deeply  embedded,  emphasizes 
the  outline  of  the  violin.  It  is  composed  of  three  thin 
strips  of  wood,  ebony,  sometimes  whalebone,  the  centre 
of  two  white  strips  ;  it  is  often  more  or  less  embedded, 
and  betrays  the  workman's  taste  and  skill.  The  double 
purfling  and  purfling  in  eccentric  patterns  of  some  of  the 
old  violins  is  very  quaint,  but  a  doubtful  adjunct  to  the 
tone.  But,  strange  to  say,  prior  to  1600,  appearances 
were  more  thought  of  than  tone.  The  old  guitars  and 
viols  are  often  so  profusely  carved  or  inlaid  with  tortoise- 
shell,  ivory,  and  silver,  that  they  have  but  little  sound, 
and  that  bad.  I  do  not  think  that  this  has  ever  been 
noticed  before,  but  it  is  undoubtedly  a  fact  that  attention 
to  tone  only  dates  from  the  rise  of  the  violin  proper  in 


THE    CHEMONA   VARNISH.  91 

the  sixteenth  century,  and  is,  in  fact,   coincident  with 
the  rise  of  the  art  of  modern  music. 

I  come  now  to  the  Cremona  varnish.  What  is  it  ? 
About  1760  it  disappeared,  and  never  reappeared.  All 
the  Cremonas  have  it.  Was  it  a  gum  or  an  oil,  or  a  dis- 
tillation from  some  plant,  or  some  chemical  once  largely 
in  use  and  superseded,  as  the  old  oil  lamps  have  gone 
out  before  gas  and  paraffine  ?  How  was  it  mixed  ?  Is 
the  recipe  lost  ?  No  one  seems  to  be  able  to  answer 
these  questions  definitely.  There  it  lies,  like  sunlit 
water,  mellow,  soft,  rich,  varying  in  color  —  golden, 
orange,  or  pale  red  tint  on  the  Guarnerius  !  rich  gold, 
deep  orange,  or  light  red  on  the  Stradivarius  back  ;  and 
when  it  rubs  softly  away  rather  than  chips  off  hardly, 
like  the  German  and  French  imitations3  it  leaves  the 
wood  seasoned,  impregnated,  and  fit  to  resist  heat,  cold, 
and  the  all-destroying  worm  for  ages.  Mr.  Charles 
Reacle  gives  one  account  of  the  matter.  He  thinks  the 
wood,  cut  in  winter,  varnished  in  the  hot  summer 
months,  was  first  bathed  several  times  in  oil ;  thus,  he 
says,  were  the  "  pores  of  the  wood  filled,  and  the  grain 
shown  up."  The  oil  held  in  solution  some  clear  gum. 
"  Then  upon  this  oil  varnish,  when  dry,  was  laid  some 
heterogeneous  varnish,  namely  a  solution  in  spirit  of  some 
sovereign,  high-colored,  pellucid,  and,  above  all,  tender 
gum."  These  gums  were  reddish  yellow  and  yellowish 
red,  and  are  accredited  with  coloring  the  varnish.  On 
the  other  hand,  it  must  be  stated  that,  although  the 
difficulties  in  the  amber  theory  are  great,  Mr.  Perkins, 
the  eminent  chemist,  has  discovered  amber  in  the  var- 
nish of  Joseph  Guarnerius,  and  he  believes  the  coloring 
to  be  derived  from  an  herb  common  throughout  Pied- 
mont, and,  following  out  his  conviction,  Mr.  Perkins 
has  made  a  varnish  which  certainly  does  resemble  very 


92  MY    MUSICAL    MEMORIES. 

closely  tlie  Cremonese  hue  and  gloss.  Dod,  \vho  died 
in  1830,  professed  to  have  got  the  Cremona  recipe,  and 
while  employing  John  Lott  and  Bernard  Fendt  to  make 
his  violins,  always  varnished  them  himself  ;  and,  indeed, 
his  varnish  is  very  superior,  and  his  violins  are  highly 
prized.  But  perhaps  in  a  general  description  like  this  to 
discuss  further  the  varnish  theory  would  be  superfluous. 

The  bridge  of  the  violin  is  to  many  a  true  Asses' 
Bridge  ;  you  may  try  and  try  again,  and  its  true  posi- 
tion will  still  be  represented  by  an  unknown  x.  It  is 
but  a  small  piece  of  hard  boxwood,  2  inches  by  1£  in 
size  ;  it  is  quaintly  perforated  ;  it  clings  closely  to  the 
violin's  belly  with  its  two  little  thin  feet ;  is  about  as 
thick,  where  thickest,  as  a  five-shilling  piece,  thin- 
ning steadily  toward  the  top,  which  obeys  the  curve  of 
the  finger-board  and  lifts  the  strain  of  the  four  strings. 
The  bridge  is  movable  ;  but  it  is  so  important  and  all- 
essential  to  the  propagation  of  any  sound  at  all,  that  it 
may  be  called  the  wife  of  the  violin.  All  old  violins 
have  had  many  bridges  in  their  time  ;  but  there  is  no 
reason  why  the  union,  if  happy,  should  not  last  for  forty 
or  fifty  years.  A  perfectly  harmonious  marriage  is  as 
rare  between  violins  and  their  bridges  as  it  is  between 
men  and  women,  though  in  either  case  there  is  a  consider- 
able margin  for  the  gradual  adjustment  of  temperaments. 
Although  the  old  violin  is  very  capricious  in  his  choice, 
and  often  remains  a  widower  for  years,  he  does  not 
object  to  elderly  bridges,  and  when  he  finds  one  he  can 
get  on  with,  will  obstinately  resent  any  rash  interference 
with  the  harmony  of  his  domestic  arrangements. 

This  is  a  point  not  nearly  enough  considered  even  by 
wise  violin  doctors  and  repairers.  The  heartless  substi- 
tution of  raw  young  bridges  for  old  and  tried  compan- 
ions is  common  and  much  to  be  deplored,  and  a  sensitive 


THE    SENTIMENT   OF   THE    BKIDGE.  93 

old  Strad.  will  never  cease  to  spar  with  the  fresh,  con- 
ceited, wayward  young  things,  utterly  incapable  of  en- 
tering into  his  fine  qualities,  and  caring  naught  for  his 
two  hundred  years  of  tonal  experience  ;  and  the  jarring 
and  bickering  go  on  until  he  gets  rid  of  one  after 
another  and  settles  down,  if  not  with  his  old  favorite,  at 
least  with  some  elderly  and  fairly  desiccated  companion. 
I  do  not  believe  in  bridges  being  worn  out.  After  a 
year  or  two  the  hard  box -fibre  yields  very  little  under 
the  cutting  of  the  strings  ;  there  is  a  considerable  margin 
for  the  shifting  of  the  strings,  and  no  string  but  the  first 
will  materially  grind.  Rather  than  change  so  precious  a 
thing  as  a  congenial  partner,  glue,  mend,  patch,  repair 
her,  just  as  you  would  her  priceless  old  husband  ;  if  he  is 
in  the  prime  of  life  at  about  one  hundred  and  fifty,  she 
may  well  be  a  little  made  up  at  sixty  or  seventy.  Thirty 
years  ago  my  Stradivarius,  1712,  grand  pattern,  came  by 
gift  into  my  possession.  I  soon  found  it  did  not  get  on 
with  its  bridge — a  new,  sappy,  crude,  thick  thing,  which 
seemed  to  choke  and  turn  sour  its  mellow  vibrations. 
About  that  time  I  received  the  present  of  a  very  old 
bridge  from  the  violin  of  F.  Cramer.  It  was  delicate, 
exquisitely  finished,  evidently  very  old.  I  thought  its 
build  too  slight,  but  clapped  it  on  at  once,  and  the  old 
violin  waked  as  out  of  a  long  sleep,  like  a  giant  refreshed 
with  wine.  It  was  then  some  time  before  1  found  ex- 
actly the  right  place,  and  for  several  years,  on  and  off,  I 
fidgeted  about  with  the  bridge.  One  day,  in  shifting  it, 
I  snapped  it ;  but  after  trying  other  bridges,  I  glued  the 
old  one  together,  and  once  more  the  violin  found  its  old 
sweetness  and  solace.  Years  passed,  I  left  off  playing, 
the  Strad.  lay  neglected,  got  damp,  and  its  joints  loos- 
ened. I  lent  it  to  a  cunning  doctor  ;  he  "  fixed  it  up" 
again,  but  sent  it  back  with  a  new  bridge,  and  sounding 


94  MY   MUSICAL  MEMORIES. 

— well,  like  files  and  vinegar  !  I  recovered  the  old 
bridge  that  he  declared  now  worn  out.  I  restored  it  to 
its  beloved  husband,  now  only  in  his  one  hundred  and 
seventy-first  year  ;  he  received  his  lost  wife  with  effu- 
sion, and  I  think  the  harmony  made  by  the  two  was 
never  more  perfect  than  it  is  now.  Truly  amantium 
not  irce^  but  separacio  amoris  integratio  est. 

A  word  about  violin  strings.  The  positive  thickness 
of  the  strings  depends  upon  the  temperament  and  build  of 
the  violin,  providing  that  the  player's  fingers  are  equal 
to  thick  or  thin  strings.  Thick  strings  will  mellow  the 
screaminess  of  a  Stainer,  elicit  the  full  tone  of  a  Joseph 
Guarnerius  or  grand  Strad.,  while  the  older  violins  of 
Brescia,  and  even  the  sweet  Nicolas  Amati,  will  work 
better  with  thinner  strings  ;  but  in  such  matters  the 
player  must  come  to  the  best  compromise  he  can  with 
his  fingers  and  his  fiddle,  for  the  finger  will  often  desire 
a  thin  string  when  the  fiddle  cries  out  for  a  thick  one. 
New  violins  as  a  rule  will  take  thicker  strings  than  the 

O 

fine  old  sensitives  of  the  sixteenth  or  seventeenth  centu- 
ries. Of  the  English,  French,  German,  and  Italian 
strings,  the  Italian  are  the  best ;  and  of  the  Italian, 
the  Roman  hard  and  brilliant,  a  little  rough,  and  Neapol- 
itan smooth,  soft,  and  pale  are  preferred.  Paduans  are 
strong,  but  frequently  false.  Veronese  are  softer  and 
deeper  in  color.  The  Germans  now  rank  next,  and  the 
white  smooth  Saxon  strings  are  good  substitutes  for,  but 
no  rivals  of,  the  Italians.  The  French  firsts  are  brittle, 
the  Italian  strings  sound  well,  and  the  French  patent 
fourth  silver  string,  perfectly  smooth  and  shining,  is 
preferred  by  some  soloists  to  the  old  covered  fourth. 
The  English  strings,  of  a  dirty  green  and  yellow  color, 
are  very  strong,  and  good  enough  for  hack  work  in  the 
orchestra.  The  best  and  strongest  strings  are  made  from 


HOW   TO   CHOOSE   STRINGS.  95 

the  intestines  of  spring  lambs  killed  in  September,  and 
the  superiority  of  the  Italian  over  others  is  explained  by 
the  climate,  for  in  Italy  the  sun  does  what  has  to  be  done 
artificially  in  more  northern  latitudes. 

The  demand  for  the  interior  of  the  September  lamb 
being  out  of  all  proportion  to  the  supply,  there  is  a  vast 
sale  of  inferior  strings  always  going  on  at  high  prices. 
In  string  selection  the  objects  are  three  : 

1.  To  suit  the  constitution  of  your  instrument,  and 
choose  that  thickness  and  quality  of  string  which  wi-ll 
develop   tone  with  the   greatest   ease,  roundness,    and 
freedom. 

2.  To  choose  strings  which  will  give  good  fifths — a 
matter  sometimes  a  little    dependent  on  the  shape  of 
your  own  fingers  and  the  cut  of  your  finger-board,  but 
also  controlled  by  the  relative  thickness  of  your  strings. 

3.  To  avoid  false  strings — an  epidemic  which  rages 
incontinently  among  E  violin  strings.     Spohr's  recipe 
for  detection  was  to  hold  the  string  between  the  fingers 
and  thumbs,  and  if,  when  he  set  it  vibrating  from  one 
end  to  the  other,  only  two  lines  appeared,  he  decided 
that  it  was  true  ;  if  a  third,  it  was  deemed  false.     Once 
on,  however,  there  can  never  be  any  doubt. 

It  is  only  necessary  to  glance  at  the  enormous  variety 
of  shapes  that  the  viol  tribe  has  assumed,  both  before 
and  after  the  creation  of  the  violin,  to  judge  of  the  inex- 
haustible dominion  which  the  conception  seems  to  have 
exercised  over  the  human  mind.  The  collector  who 
cannot  play,  and  the  player  who  cannot  collect,  are  alike 
victims  of  this  mania  for  violins.  Of  what  interest  can 
they  be  to  the  collector,  who  keeps  dozens  of  them,  un- 
strung and  unmended,  in  cupboards  and  cabinets,  and 
shows  them  about  to  his  bewildered  guests  like  old  pots 
or  enamels  ? 


96  MY    MUSICAL  MEMORIES. 

Look  at  a  fine  specimen  or  two,  on  and  off,  when  you 
have  the  chance,  and  the  mystery  may  possibly  dawn 
upon  you  too. 

There,  in  a  small  compass,  lies  before  you  such  a 
wonder  of  simplicity,  subtlety,  variety,  and  strength  as 
perhaps  no  other  object  of  equal  dimensions  can  possess. 
The  eye  is  arrested  by  the  amber  gloss  and  glow  of  the 
varnish,  the  infinite  grace  of  the  multitudinous  curves, 
the  surface,  which  is  nowhere  flat,  but  ever  in  flowing 
lines — sunlit  hollows  of  miniature  hills  and  vales,  irregu- 
lar, like  the  fine  surface  of  a  perfectly  healthy  human 
body.  Its  gentle  mounds  and  depressions  would  almost 
make  us  believe  that  there  is  a  whole  underlying  system 
of  muscle — a  very  living  organism,  to  account  for  such 
subtle  yet  harmonious  irregularity  of  surface.  It  is  posi- 
tively alive  with  swelling  and  undulating  grace. 

Then  the  eye  follows  with  unabating  ardor  the  out- 
line, clipping  in  here  or  bulging  there,  in  segments  of 
what  look  like  an  oval  or  a  circle,  but  which  are  never 
any  part  of  an  oval  or  a  circle,  but  something  drawn  un- 
mechanically,  like  a  Greek  frieze,  after  the  vision  of  an 
inward  grace. 

Its  voice  may  be  as  fair  as  its  form  and  finish  ;  yet 
unstrung  and  silent,  more  truly  can  it  be  said  of  a  violin 
than  of  any  human  creature,  that  "it  is  a  thing  of 
beauty  and  a  joy  forever,"  for  its  beauty  grows  with 
the  mellowness  of  age,  its  voice  is  sweeter  as  the  cen- 
turies roll  on,  and  its  physical  frame  appears  to  be 
almost  indestructible. 

And  the  player,  who  is  not  always  a  judge  of  a  genu- 
ine violin,  but  goes  by  the  sound  qualities  which  suit 
him — he  naturally  adores  what  is,  within  its  limits,  scien- 
tifically the  most  perfect  of  all  instruments. 

The  four  strings,  of  course,  limit  and  define  its  har- 


POWER   OF   THE   VIOLIN".  97 

monic  resources.  In  combination,  and  viewed  collec- 
tively in  the  quartet  alone,  is  it  able  to  compass  the  ex- 
tended developments  of  harmony  in  bass,  tenor,  and 
treble  clef  ;  but  as  a  tone-producing  instrument  it  has  no 
rival.  It  possesses  accent  combined  with  sustained  and 
modified  tone.  The  piano  has  accent,  but  little  sus- 
tained and  no  modified  tone  ;  the  organ  has  accent,  and 
sustained,  but  in  a  very  imperfect  sense,  modified  tone  ; 
the  violin  possesses  in  perfection  all  three.  With  the 
stroke  of  the  bow  comes  every  degree  of  accent  /  with 
the  drawing  and  skilful  sostenuto  of  up  and  down  bow- 
ings the  notes  are  indefinitely  sustained  to  a  degree  far 
exceeding  the  capacity  of  the  human  lungs  ;  while  every 
pulse  of  emotion  is  through  the  pressure  of  the  finger 
communicated  to  the  vibrating  string,  and  the  tone  trem- 
bles, shivers,  thrills,  or  assumes  a  hard,  rigid  quality, 
passing  at  will  from  the  variety  of  a  whisper  to  a  very 
roar  or  scream  of  agony  or  delight. 

Can  the  soul  of  the  musician  fail  to  yield  loving  or 
utter  allegiance  to  the  sovereign  power  of  the  violin, 
which  is  so*  willing  and  ideal  a  minister  of  his  subtlest 
inspirations — equal  to  the  human  voice  in  sensibility  and 
expression,  and  far  superior  to  it  in  compass,  execution, 
variety,  and  durability  ? 

The  hotter  suns  and  splendid  river  supplying  the  fine 
wood-market,  and  the  commercial  prosperity  enjoyed  by 
Cremona,  seem  to  have  attracted  and  fixed  the  manu- 
facture of  the  violin  ;  and  there  became  a  growing 
demand,  not  only  from  all  the  churches,  but  also 
throughout  the  palaces  of  Italy.  We  must  ever  view 
that  central  square  of  Cremona,  where  stood  the  Church 
of  St.  Dominic,  with  feelings  of  the  deepest  interest. 
Standing  opposite  the  fayade  on  our  right  hand  lies  the 


98  MY    MUSICAL  MEMORIES. 

house  of  the  Amati  ;  there  worked  Andrew,  the  founder 
of  the  school,  making,  in  1550,  close  copies  of  the  Bres- 
cians,  Gaspar  and  Haggini. 

There  were  the  boys,  Anthony  and  Jerome,  who 
afterward  made  jointly  those  violins  so  much  sought 
after  ;  but  oddly  enough  reverted  to  the  tubbier  model, 
and  over-grooved  the  sides  of  their  bellies  and  backs, 
thinning  their  tone,  until  the  genius  of  Jerome  discerned 
the  error  and  reverted  to  the  Brescian  type. 

Here  was  born  the  great  Nicolas  Amati,  1596-1684:, 
who  struck  out  his  own  model,  flattened,  and  in  his  best 
time  scarcely  retaining  a  trace  of  the  vicious  side-groove 
of  the  earlier  Amatis. 

On  the  same  work-bench,  as  students  in  the  school  of 
the  immortal  Nicolas,  sat  Andrew  Guarnerius  and  the 
incomparable  Stradivari  us,  finishing  their  master's  vio- 
lins and  copying  for  years  his  various  models  with  su- 
preme skill  and  docility. 

Almost  next  door,  probably  on  the  death  of  Nicolas 
Amati,  Stradivari  us  set  up  his  shop,  opposite  the  west 
front  of  the  big  church  ;  there  for  fifty  years  more  he 
worked  with  uninterrupted  assiduity  ;  and  next  door  to 
him  the  family  of  the  Guarnerii  had  their  work-rooms, 
and  in  that  little  square  were  all  the  finest  violins  made 
in  the  short  space  of  about  one  hundred  and  fifty  years. 
The  body  of  Stradivarius  lies  in  the  Church  of  the 
Rosar}7,  not  a  stone's-throw  from  his  own  house  ;  and  so 
these  great  men  died,  and  were  buried,  working  in 
friendly  rivalry,  and  leaving  their  echoes  to  roll  from 
pole  to  pole. 

The  great  Nicolas  (1596-168-1)  began  to  change 
.his  model,  reverting  to  the  later  Brescian  in  all  but  his 
sound  holes  and  two  curves,  about  1625.  His  violins  in- 
creased in  size,  and  would  have  increased  in  power,  had 


STRADIVARI  US.  99 

it  not  been  for  a  remnant  of  tlie  early  Amati  side-groov- 
ing, which  is  said  to  thin  the  tone.  The  dip  from  the 
foot  of  the  bridge  is  thought  to  be  too  great,  but  the 
upper  part  of  the  grand  pattern  is  truly  noble.  Some 
of  his  scrolls  have  been  criticised  as  too  small  and  con- 
tracted, but  there  is  nothing  of  this  in  a  1676  specimen 
before  me  ;  and  although  the  corners  are  pointed  and 
highly  elegant,  there  is  nothing  weak  ;  yet  the  whole  is 
full  of  feminine  grace. 

The  varnish,  when  not  as  is  usual  rubbed  off,  inclines 
to  light  orange  with  clear  golden  tints.  The  tone  is  so 
sweet  and  sensitive  that  it  seems  to  leap  forth  before  the 
bow  has  touched  the  strings,  and  goes  on  like  a  bell  long 
after  the  bow  has  left  them.  To  a  fine  Joseph  Guarne- 
rius  you  have  sometimes  to  lay  siege,  and  then  you  are  re- 
warded ;  but  the  Kicolas  Amati  is  won  almost  before  it 
is  wooed. 

The  incomparable  Antonius  Stradivarius,  or  Stradi- 
vari, lived  between  16J4-1737.  His  latest  known  vio- 
lin bears  date  1736,  and  mentions  his  age,  ninety-two. 
He  worked  without  haste  and  without  rest.  His  life 
was  interrupted  only  by  the  siege  of  Cremona  in  1702. 
But  his  art  knew  no  politics,  and  the  foreign  courts  of 
Spain  and  France  were  quite  as  eager  to  get  his  violins 
as  the  Governor  of  Cremona,  or  the  Duke  of  Modena. 

Up  to  about  1668  he  was  simply  the  apprentice  of 
Nicolas  ;  we  find  scrolls  and  sound-holes  cut  by  the  pupil 
on  the  master's  violins.  He  even  made  and  labelled  for 
Nicolas. 

In  1668  he  leaves  his  master's  shop  and  sets  up  for 
himself.  But  for  thirty  years  this  consummate  student, 
while  making  every  conceivable  experiment  with  flutes, 
guitars,  and  violins,  practically  copied  closely  the  best 
models  of  Xicolas  Amati. 


100  MY   MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

Still  we  notice  that  from  1686-1694  his  sound  holes 
begin  to  recline,  his  form  grows  flatter,  his  curves  ex- 
tended, his  corners  tossed  up  and  pointed,  the  scroll 
bolder,  varnish  inclining  away  from  the  browns  and 
light  orange  to  the  rich  yellows  and  light  reds.  Notice 
the  way  in  which  his  purfiing  at  the  corners,  like  a  little 
curved  wasp's  sting,  follows  no  outline  of  the  violin,  and 
is  not  in  the  middle  of  the  angle,  but  points  freely  toward 
the  corner  of  the  angle.  What  chic  !  as  the  French  say. 

In  1687  the  master  makes  his  long  pattern — not  really 
longer,  but  looking  longer  because  of  the  contracted 
sides.  The  Spanish  Quatuor,  inlaid  with  ivory,  illus- 
trates the  fancy  and  skill  of  the  workman. 

It  was  not  until  Stradivarius  had  entered  upon  his 
fifty-sixth  year  that  he  attained  his  zenith  and  fixed  his 
model,  known  as  the  grand  pattern.  Between  1700  and 
1725  those  extraordinary  creations  passed  from  his 
chisel,  even  as  the  master-pieces  on  canvas  passed  from 
the  brush  of  Raphael.  The  finest  of  these  specimens — 
like  that  possessed  by  Mr.  Adams,  the  Dolphin,  and  by 
Mr.  Hart,  the  Betts  Strad.— fetch  from  £300  to  £1000. 

To  try  to  describe  these  instruments  is  like  trying  to 
describe  the  pastes,  glazes,  and  blues  of  Nankin  China. 
Beneath  the  tangible  points  of  outline,  scroll,  character, 
and  variety  of  thickness  and  modification  of  form,  depend- 
ent on  qualities  of  wood  known  to  the  master,  there  lie 
still  the  intangible  things  which  will  hardly  bear  describ- 
ing, even  when  the  violin  is  under  the  eye — one  might 
almost  say  under  the  microscope.  A  rough  attempt  by 
contrast  may  be  made  in  detail.  Take  but  one  detail  for 
the  benefit  of  the  general  reader,  the  inner  side  curves 
and  angles  of  the  middle  boughts. 

In  Gaspar  and  Maggini  those  curves  are  drooping  at 
the  corners,  longish  and  undecided  in  character  ;  in 


THE   END    OF   STEADIVARIUS.  101 

Duiffoprugear  they  amount  almost  to  wriggles.  Nicolas 
Amati  balances  the  top  and  bottom  of  his  hollow  curve 
with  a  certain  mastery,  but  it  still  has  a  long  oval  sweep, 
with  a  definite  relation  of  balance  between  the  top  and 
the  bottom  angle.  Having  mastered  this  sweep,  Stradi- 
varius  begins  to  play  with  his  curves  and  angles.  He 
feels  strong  enough  to  trifle,  like  a  skilled  acrobat, 
with  the  balance.  He  lessens  the  oval,  and  tosses  up  his 
lower  corner  with  a  curious  little  crook  at  the  bottom  ; 
the  top  angle  towers  proudly  and  smoothly  above  it,  yet 
it  is  always  graceful — delicious  from  its  sense  of  free- 
dom, almost  insolent  in  its  strength  and  self-confidence. 
There  is  a  touch  about  Stradivarius  here  as  elsewhere  ; 
it  is  that  which  separates  the  great  masters  everywhere 
from  their  pupils — Raphael  from  Giulio  Romano,  Paga- 
nini  from  Sivori,  Stradivarius  from  Carlo  Bergonzi. 
The  freedom  of  Stradivarius  becomes  license  in  Carlo 
Bergonzi  and  over-boldness  in  Joseph  Guamerius  ;  for, 
although  the  connection  between  Joseph  and  Stradiva- 
rius has  been  questioned,  to  my  mind  it  is  sufficiently 
clear. 

Although  Stradivarius  worked  down  to  the  last  year  of 
his  life,  still,  after  1730,  feeling  his  hand  and  sight  begin- 
ning to  fail,  he  seldom  signed  his  work.  We  catch  one, 
and  only  one,  glimpse  of  him  as  he  lived  and  moved  and 
had  his  being  at  Cremona  in  1730,  Piazza  Domeiiico. 
Old  Polledro,  late  chapel-master  at  Turin,  describes 
"  Antonius,  the  lute-maker,"  as  an  intimate  friend  of 
his  master.  He  was  high  and  thin,  and  looked  like  one 
worn  with  much  thought  and  incessant  industry.  In 
summer  he  wore  a  white  cotton  night-cap,  and  in  winter 
one  of  some  woollen  material.  He  was  never  seen  with- 
out his  apron  of  white  leather,  and  every  day  was  to  him 
exactly  like  every  other  day.  His  mind  was  always 


102  MY    MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

riveted  upon  his  one  pursuit,  and  he  seemed  neither  to 
know  nor  to  desire  the  least  change  of  occupation.  His 
violins  sold  for  four  golden  livres  apiece,  and  were  con- 
sidered the  best  in  Italy  ;  and  as  he  never  spent  anything 
except  upon  the  necessaries  of  life  and  his  own  trade,  he 
saved  a  good  deal  of  money,  and  the  simple-minded  Cre- 
monese  used  to  make  jokes  about  his  thriftmess,  and  the 
proverb  passed,  "  As  rich  as  Stradivarius." 

A  traveller  who  lately  visited  his  house,  still  standing 
in  the  square  of  Cremona,  remarked  that  it  was  heated 
through  with  the  sun  like  an  oven.  He  said  you  might 
sit  and  sweat  there  as  in  a  Turkish  bath.  That  was  how 
the  Cremona  makers  dried  their  wood,  and  so  it  was  their 
oils  distilled  slowly  and  remained  always  at  a  high  tem- 
perature, their  varnish  soaked  into  the  pine  bellies  and 
sycamore  backs  beneath  the  tropical  heat  of  those  sev- 
enteenth century  summers  !  _j_ 

Joseph  Anthony  Guarnerius  del  Gesu  IHS  (1687- 
1745)  towers  a  head  and  shoulders  above  the  other  illus- 
trious Guarnerii,  viz.,  Andrew  and  Joseph,  his  sons, 
Peter,  brother  of  Joseph  (son},  Peter  of  Mantua,  son  of 
"  Joseph  Filius  Andrese."  The  loud  and  rich  tone  of 
the  later  Joseph  del  Gesu  violins  makes  him  the  formi- 
dable rival  of  Stradivarius.  Paganini  preferred  his 
Joseph,  now  in  the  Municipal  Palace  of  Genoa,  to  all 
others. 

Who  was  Joseph's  master  ?  The  idea  that  Joseph,  or 
any  one  who  lived  either  in  Amati's  or  Guarnerius's 
house — Amati  on  the  right,  Guarnerius  on  the  left  of 
Stradivarius,  in  the  same  square  at  Cremona — was  en- 
tirely unaffected  by  the  great  man's  influence,  has  always 
seemed  to  me  absurd.  That  influence  has  been  denied 
as  vehemently  in  late  years  as  it  used  to  be  formerly 
taken  for  granted.  Still,  the  great  Joseph  is  claimed  as 


THE    GREAT    JOSEPH.  103 

the  pupil  of  Joseph,  son  of  Andrew — that  Andrew  who 
sat  by  the  side  of  Stradivari  ns  in  Nicolas  Amati's  work- 
shop. With  this  I  find  no  fault  ;  hut  if  the  influence  of 
Stradivarius  cannot  be  seen  in  earlier  Josephs,  the  later 
Josephs  show  undoubted  signs  of  the  master,  who 
between  1700  and  1730  had  eclipsed  all  his  predecessors. 
In  some  details  Joseph's  undoubted  reversion  to  Brcs- 
cian  influence,  and  that  early,  is  interesting — the  flat 
model,  the  long  sound-holes,  and,  it  must  be  added, 
often  the  rough  work.  Still,  in  Joseph'?  middle  period 
there  occurs  that  very  high  finish  which  reminds  one  of 
Stradivarius.  The  elegance  of  the  Strad.  scroll  is  never 
attained,  perhaps  not  even  aimed  at.  The  Josephs  of 
about  1740  are  most  in  request.  They  are  large  and 
massively  made,  the  wood  of  finest  acoustic  property, 
the  Breseian  sound-hole  toned  down  and  rounded  more 
like  Stradivarius.  A  fine  genuine  violin  of  this  period 
will  not  go  for  less  than  two  hundrd  guineas,  and  four 
hundred  would  not  be  an  out-and-out  price.  The  Guar- 
nerius  head  or  scroll  is  often  quaint  and  full  of  self-asser- 
tion. The  violin  has  the  strongest  make,  temper,  and 
stamp  ;  the  fourth  string  is  often  as  rich  as  a  trumpet. 
His  last  period  is  troubled  by  certain  inferior  violins 
called  prison  fiddles.  The  tale  runs  that  Joseph  was 
imprisoned  for  some  political  offence,  and  was  supplied 
with  refuse  wood  by  the  jailer's  daughter.  The  prison 
fiddle  is  a  boon  to  forgers  ;  their  bad  fiddles  pass  freely 
for  interesting  "  prison  Josephs." 

"With  Carlo  Bergonzi  (1718-1755)  and  Guadagnini 
(1710-1750)  the  great  Cremona  school  comes  to  an  end. 
The  very  varnish  disappears,  the  cunning  in  wood-selec- 
tion seems  to  fail  the  pale  reflectors  of  a  dying  art,  and 
the  passion  for  vigor  and  finish  has  also  departed.  The 
violin,  although  it  culminated,  was  not  exhausted  at 


104  MY    MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

Cremona  ;  but  it  would  lead  me  into  a  new  branch  of 
my  subject  to  deal  with  the  other  schools.  These,  after 
all,  are  but  reflections,  more  or  less  pale  or  perfect,  of 
the  incomparable  Cremonese  masters. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

PAGANINI. 

WHO  is  this  man  who  rises  up  suddenly  in  the  world 
of  music,  and  whose  fame  passes  with  the  brightness  and 
rapidity  of  a  meteor  through  the  civilized  world  ;  who, 
at  the  moment  when  Baillot,  Spohr,  Rode,  and  Lafont 
seemed  to  have  explored  the  heights  and  depths  of  the 
violin,  opened  up  new  vistas  full  of  strange,  unparalleled 
mysteries,  and  gave  us  glimpses  into  a  hell,  purgatory, 
and  paradise  beyond  the  dreams  even  of  Dante  ;  whose 
gaunt  and  supernatural  figure  startled  and  fascinated  the 
crowds  that  thronged  about  him,  a  solitary  man  among 
men,  but  so  unlike  them  that  he  seemed  to  belong  to 
another  race,  and  to  discourse  in  the  weird  music  of 
another  world  ;  who  bowed  to  none,  yet  was  idolized  by 
all ;  whose  engagements  were  negotiated  by  kings  and 
ministers  ;  who  could  spurn  the  prayers  of  princes  and 
grand  duchesses,  and  yet  received  honor  at  their  hands, 
and  was  alternately  decorated  by  the  pope,  and  anathe- 
matized by  the  clergy  ?  Who  was  this  exceptional  being 
reigm'ng  supreme  for  forty  years  without  a  rival  over  the 
conflicting  schools  of  Italy,  Germany,  and  France  ;  at 
whose  approach  the  greatest  masters  confessed  them- 
selves vanquished  ;  who,  although  he  set  the  fashions, 
fired  whole  populations,  invented  a  new  school,  yet, 
in  his  own  peculiar  greatness,  had  no  masters,  no  equals, 
and  has  left  no  followers  ?  This  man,  who  has  stamped 
BO  indelible  an  impression  of  himself  upon  the  musical 


106  MY    MUSICAL    MEMORIES. 

world,  while  his  name  will  survive  as  the  synonym  of 
wonder  and  mystery  to  the  remote  ages — this  Hercules  of 
the  violin  was  Nicolo  Paganini. 

That  a  man's  grandmother,  or  even  his  father  and 
mother,  are  of  some  consequence  when  he  derives  lustre 
or  gain  from  them  of  any  kind,  no  one  will  deny  ;  but 
when  he  sheds  back  upon  them  the  only  kind  of  reflex 
glory  which  they  are  capable  of  receiving,  the  glory  of 
an  imperishable  name,  no  one  will  blame  the  biographer 
for  skipping  a  few  dull  and  stupid  antecedents. 

Paganini  pere  may  have  been  a  street  porter,  as 
some  pretend  ;  or  small  tradesman,  as  others,  prob- 
ably in  the  right, "affirm.  He  was  a  sharp  man  ;  he  was  a 
cruel  man  ;  he  did  overmuch  to  develop  his  son's  talents, 
and  overmuch  to  ruin  his  health,  and,  probably,  is 
chargeable  with  having  destroyed  his  mental  and  moral 
equilibrium  for  life.  Nicolo's  mother  was  a  sweet, 
amiable  woman.  She  loved  her  boy,  she  believed  in 
him,  she  often  stood  between  him  and  the  rod,  she 
prayed  for  him,  and  saw  one  night  in  a  vision  a  celestial 
being,  who  told  her  that  the  boy  would  become  the 
greatest  violinist  that  ever  lived.  How  far  this  dream, 
which  she  lost  no  time  in  communicating  to  father  and 
son,  increased  the  father's  severity,  and  fired  the  boy's 
ambition,  we  cannot  tell ;  but  the  dream  seems  to  have 
been  a  well-established  fact,  and  years  afterward,  when 
the  mother  was  old,  and  the  son  at  his  zenith,  she  re- 
minded him  of  it,  as  of  an  incident  which  had  been 
familiar  to  both  of  them  throughout  their  lives. 

In  these  early  days  of  boyhood  were  probably  laid  the 
seeds  of  that  idiosyncrasy  of  temperament  which  became 
at  once  the  glory  and  curse  of  his  life.  Little  as  we 
know  about  the  human  brain,  it  is  tolerably  certain  that 
its  particles  move  in  physical  grooves  and  acquire 


THE    DESPAIR    OF   HIS    MASTERS.  10? 

methodical  arrangements,  which  correspond  to  what  we 
call  mental  qualities  and  states  of  mind.  Illness  may 
perpetuate  some  and  modify  others.  Great  severity 
may  have  a  similar  effect ;  recurrent  outward  action,  for 
instance,  may  create  intense  propensity  in  certain  direc- 
tions, and  thus  impart  the  perseverance  of  mania  to  in- 
ward dispositions  ;  the  nervous  system  at  the  same  time, 
if  it  does  not  break  down,  becomes  over-developed,  and 
is  then  endowed  with  an  almost  supernatural  sensibility. 
Something  of  this  kind  appears  to  have  been  the  case 
with  Paganini.  He  was  by  nature  very  delicate.  At 
four  years  old  he  was  nearly  buried  alive  ;  he  lay  for  a 
whole  day  in  a  state  of  catalepsy,  and  was  already  placed 
in  his  shroud,  when  he  revived,  but  with  a  nervous  sys- 
tem which  from  that  time  forward  showed  signs  of  a 
strange  and  unnatural  susceptibility.  By  his  own  tem- 
perament, as  soon  as  he  could  hold  the  violin,  he  was 
urged  to  an  intense  and  dangerous  application.  For  the 
least  fault  he  was  severely  beaten  by  his  father,  which 
seemed  only  to  increase  an  ardor  which  should,  for  his 
own  sake,  have  been  rather  moderated.  Precocity  was 
still  further  forced  on  by  starvation.  Had  it  not  been 
for  his  mother,  he  might  never  have  survived  this  brutal 
treatment.  We  shall  see  by  and  by  how  lovingly  he 
remembered  her  in  the  midst  of  his  triumphs. 

Paganini  was  born  at  Genoa  on  the  10th  of  February, 
1784.  After  exhausting  his  father's  instruction,  he  was 
taken  in  hand  by  Signor  Servetto,  of  the  Genoese  thea- 
tre ;  then  Giacomo  Costa,  chapel-master,  taught  him, 
and  the  child  was  often  seen  playing  in  the  Genoese 
churches  on  a  violin  almost  as  large  as  himself  ;  but, 
like  Mozart  before  him,  and  Mendelssohn  after  him, 
Kicolo  was  the  despair  of  his  masters,  who  were  in  turn 
angry  with  his  innovations,  and  astonished  at  his  preco- 


108  MY    MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

cious  facility.  In  his  nintli  year  lie  appeared  at  a  con- 
cert, and  electrified  every  one  with  variations  on  the 
French  air,  La  Carmagnole.  This  triumph  impelled  his 
avaricious  father  to  discover  some  one  who  could  further 
teach  him  ;  the  young  talent  was  to  be  pressed  and 
squeezed  to  its  utmost  limit,  in  order  to  produce  the 
golden  harvest. 

At  Parma  lived  the  celebrated  musician  Holla.  To 
Holla  was  the  boy  taken  ;  but  Rolla  was  ill.  "While 
waiting  in  the  ante-room  little  Nicolo  took  up  a  violin, 
and  played  off  at  sight  some  difficult  music  which  he 
found  lying  on  the  table.  The  invalid  composer  raised 
himself  on  his  bed  to  listen,  and  eagerly  inquired  who 
the  great  master  was  who  had  arrived  and  was  playing 
in  his  ante-room.  "A  mere  lad! — impossible!"  but 
on  Paganini's  making  his  appearance  as  an  humble 
pupil,  Holla  at  once  told  him  that  he  could  teach  him 
nothing.  Thence  to  Pae'r,  who  was  glad  to  make  his 
difficult  charge  over  to  Ghiretti,  and  this  master  gave 
him  three  lessons  a  week  in  harmony  and  counterpoint. 
It  is  not  clear  that  this  extraordinary  genius  owed  much 
more  to  any  one  but  himself — his  indomitable  perseve- 
rance and  his  incessant  study.  His  method  is  to  be 
noted.  For  ten  or  twelve  hours  he  would  try  passages 
over  and  over  again  in  different  ways  with  such  absorp- 
tion and  intensity  that  at  nightfall  he  would  sink  into 
utter  prostration  through  excessive  exhaustion  and  fa- 
tigue. Though  delicate,  like  Mendelssohn,  he  ate  at 
times  ravenously,  and  slept  soundly.  When  about  ten 
he  wrote  twenty-four  fugues,  and  soon  afterward  com- 
posed some  violin  music,  of  such  difficulty  that  he  was 
unable  at  first  to  play  it,  until  incessant  practice  gave 
him  the  mastery. 

In  1797  Paganini,  being  then  thirteen  years  old,  made 


HOW   HE   LOST   AND    WON    VIOLINS.  109 

his  first  professional  tour  ;  but  not  as  a  free  agent.  His 
father  took  him  through  the  chief  towns  of  Lombardy, 
and,  not  unnaturally,  prescribed  the  task  and  pocketed 
the  proceeds.  But  the  young  neck  was  already  begin- 
ning to  chafe  against  the  yoke.  In  1798  he  escaped, 
with  his  father's  tardy  consent,  to  Lucca,  where  a  musi- 
cal festival  in  honor  of  St.  Martin  was  going  on.  He 
there  gave  frequent  concerts,  and  was  everywhere  met 
with  applause,  and,  what  was  more  to  the  purpose,  with 
money.  Surrounded  by  men  of  inferior  talents,  a  mere 
inexperienced  boy,  without  education,  without  knowl- 
edge of  the  world,  with  nothing  but  ambition  and  his 
supreme  musical  genius,  he  now  broke  wildly  away  from 
all  wise  restraints,  and  avenged  himself  upon  his  father's 
severity  by  many  youthful  excesses.  He  gambled — he 
lost — he  was  duped  by  his  companions  ;  but  he  made 
money  so  fast,  that  he  soon  owned  about  £1000.  It  is 
pleasant  to  think  that  he  at  once  thought  of  giving  some 
of  this  to  his  father  and  mother  ;  it  is  unpleasant  to 
record  that  his  father  claimed,  and  eventually  got, 
almost  the  whole  sum  from  him.  But  it  did  not  much 
matter  now,  for  everything  seemed  literally  to  turn  into 
gold  beneath  those  marvellous  fingers,  and  bad  luck 
proved  nearly  as  profitable  to  him  as  good. 

By  the  time  he  had  reached  seventeen,  Paganini  was 
a  confirmed  gambler.  He  had  little  left  but  his  Stradi- 
Varius  violin,  and  this  he  was  on  the  point  of  selling  to  a 
certain  prince,  who  had  offered  him  £80,  a  large  sum  at 
the  beginning  of  this  century  even  for  a  Stradivarius. 
Times  have  changed,  and  in  these  latter  days  we  think 
nothing  of  giving  £300  for  a  genuine  instrument  of  the 
first  class.  But  the  reckless  youth  determined  to  make 
a  last  stand  for  his  violin.  "  Jewels,  watch,  rings, 
brooches,"  to  use  his  own  words,  "  I  had  disposed  of 


110  MY   MUSICAL  MEMOKIES. 

all ;  my  thirty  francs  were  reduced  to  three.  With  this 
small  remains  of  my  capital  I  played,  and  won  160 
francs  !  This  amount  sa^ed  my  violin,  and  restored  my 
affairs.  From  that  time,"  he  adds,  "I  abjured  gam- 
ing, to  which  I  had  sacrificed  a  part  of  my  youth,  con- 
vinced that  a  gamester  is  an  object  of  contempt  to  all 
well-regulated  minds."  The  violin  he  narrowly  missed 
losing  was  given  him  by  Parsini  the  painter,  who  on  one 
occasion  brought  him  a  concerto  of  extraordinary  diffi- 
culty to  read  at  sight,  and,  placing  a  fine  Stradivarius  in 
his  hands,  said,  "  This  instrument  shall  be  yours  if  you 
can  play  that  concerto  at  first  sight  in  a  masterly 
manner."  "If  that  is  the  case,"  replied  Paganini, 
"  you  may  bid  adieu  to  it  ;"  and,  playing  it  off  at  once, 
he  retained  the  violin.  Easy  corne — easy  go'.  Some 
years  later  at  Leghorn,  being  again  in  great  straits,  he 
was  obliged  to  part,  for  a  time  at  least,  with  this  same 
Stradivarius  ;  but  this  disaster  was  only  the  means  of 
procuring  him  the  favorite  Guarnerius,  upon  which  he 
ever  afterward  played.  In  his  need,  Monsieur  Livron, 
a  distinguished  amateur,  lent  him  this  splendid  instru- 
ment, and  was  so  enraptured  by  his  playing  that  he  ex- 
claimed, "Never  will  I  profane  the  strings  that  your 
fingers  have  touched.  It  is  to  you  that  my  violin 
belongs."  This  violin  is  still  shown  at  Genoa  under  a 
glass  case. 

At  the  age  of  seventeen  Paganini  appears  to  have  been 
entirely  his  own  master — weak  in  health,  nervous,  irrita- 
ble, and  excitable  ;  his  wild  and  irregular  habits  and 
pursuits  were,  at  this  critical  age,  threatening  to  hurry 
him  to  an  early  grave,  when  an  event  occurred  which, 
although  but  too  characteristic  of  the  looseness  of  Italian 
manners,  probably  saved  his  life. 

Suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  new  discoveries  and  uncx- 


STUDY   AND    COMPOSITION.  Ill 

ampled  successes,  Paganini  ceased  to  play  the  violin. 
He  retired  into  the  depths  of  the  country,  and  devoted 
himself  for  three  years  to  agricultural  pursuits,  and  to 
the  society  of  a  lady  of  rank  who  had  carried  him  off  to 
her  Tuscan  estate,  and  to  the  guitar.  With  the  sole  ex- 
ception of  the  late  Regondi,  no  such  genius  had  ever 
been  concentrated  upon  this  limited  and  effeminate  in- 
strument. But  the  lady's  taste  ran  that  way,  and  the 
great  violinist  lavished  for  a  time  the  whole  force  of  his 
originality  and  skill  upon  the  light  guitar.  He  wrote 
music  for  it,  and  imitated  it  on  the  violin,  but  seldom 
touched  it  in  after  life  until  quite  the  close,  although,  as 
we  shall  presently  see,  he  was  able  to  produce  a  prodig- 
ious effect  upon  it  when  he  chose.  These  years  of 
country  life  and  leisure,  during  which  he  was  delivered 
from  the  pressure  of  crowds,  the  excitement  of  public 
performances,  and,  most  of  all,  the  grinding  anxieties 
of  life,  had  the  effect  of  bracing  him  up  in  health,  and 
prepared  him  for  that  reaction  toward  intense  study  and 
exhausting  toil  which  left  him  without  a  rival — the  first 
violinist  in  the  world. 

In  1804  he  returned  to  Genoa,  where  he  seems, 
among  other  thirigs,  to  have  given  lessons  to  a  young 
girl  of  fifteen,  named  Catherine  Calcagno,  who  appears 
to  havo  caught  something  of  his  style,  and  to  have 
astonished  Italy  for  a  few  years  ;  but  after  1816  we  hear 
no  more  of  her.  And  now  the  neglected  violin  was 
taken  up  once  again,  but  this  time  with  maturer  powers 
and  settled  intentions.  There  is  a  strange  thoroughness 
about  Paganini — nothing  which  any  previous  musician 
knew  or  had  done  must  be  unknown  or  left  undone  by 
him  ;  there  was  to  be  no  hitting  him  between  the  joints 
of  his  armor  ;  no  loop-hole  of  imperfection  anywhere. 
He  now  occupied  himself  solely  with  the  study  of  his  in- 


112  MY   MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

stmment,  and  with,  composition — wrote  four  grand  quar- 
tets for  violin,  viol,  guitar,  and  violoncello  ;  and  bra- 
vura variations  with  guitar  accompaniment.  At  the 
age  of  twenty-one  (1805)  he  made  a  second  professional 
tour,  passing  through  Lucca  and  Piombino,  and  in  one 
convent  church,  where  he  played  a  concerto,  the  excite- 
ment was  so  great  that  the  monks  had  to  leave  their 
seats  to  silence  the  uproar  in  the  congregation.  It  was 
at  the  end  of  this  tour  that  Napoleon's  sister,  the  Prin- 
cess Eliza,  offered  the  new  violinist  the  direction  of  the 
court  music,  and  gave  him  the  grade  of  captain  in  the 
Royal  Guard,  with  the  privilege  of  wearing  that  officer's 
brilliant  uniform  on  state  occasions. 

Between  1805  and  1812,  while  in  the  service  of  the 
Princess  Eliza,  afterward  Grand  Duchess  of  Tuscany, 
Paganini  probably  reached  his  acme  of  power,  if  not 
of  fame.  He  had  for  years  been  at  work  upon  new 
effects  and  combinations,  but,  at  the  very  time  when 
each  new  exploit  was  being  greeted  with  frantic  ap- 
plause, he  betook  himself  to  an  exhaustive  study  of  the 
old  masters.  Something  he  seemed  to  be  groping  after 
— some  clue  he  wished  to  find.  How  often  had  he 
thrown  over  Yiotti,  Pugnani,  Kreutzer  ;  how  often  had 
he  returned  to  their  works  !  All  were  found  utterly  in- 
adequate to  suggest  to  him  a  single  fresh  thought,  and  it 
was  nothing  short  of  a  new  world  that  he  was  bound  to 
discover. 

In  studying  the  ninth  work  of  Locatelli,  entitled 
"  L'Arte  de  Nuova  Modulazione, "  his  brain  was  set 
suddenly  to  going  in  the  peculiar  direction  of  his  new 
aspirations.  Eveiy  original  genius  seeks  some  such  clue 
or  point  of  departure.  Something  in  Locatelli's  method 
inflamed  Paganini  with  those  conceptions  of  simulta- 
neous notes  struck  in  different  parts  of  the  instrument  ; 


PLAYING    ON   ONE   STRING.  113 

the  hitherto  unknown  management  of  the  screws,  in 
which  the  violin  was  tuned  all  sorts  of  ways  to  reach 
effects  never  heard  before  or  since  ;  the  harmonic  flying 
out  at  all  points  ;  the  arpeggios  and  pizzicatos,  of  which 
more  anon — these,  which  were  in  after  years  brought  to 
such  perfection,  were  born  out  of  infinite  study  and  prac- 
tice, under  the  stimulating  influence  of  the  Grand 
Duchess  and  her  court. 

It  is  at  this  season  of  his  life  that  Paganini  appears 
most  like  other  people,  the  idol  of  the  court,  un- 
touched as  yet  by  any  definite  malady,  occupying  an  offi- 
cial post,  and  systematically  laboring  to  perfect  a  talent 
which  already  seemed  too  prodigious  to  belong  to  any 
one  man.  All  conditions  seemed  most  favorable  to  his 
peace  and  pleasure,  could  they  have  only  lasted  ;  but 
this  was  not  possible.  They  continued  until  he  had 
achieved  the  last  step  in  the  ladder  of  consummate  skill, 
and  no  longer.  Probably  all  his  executive  peculiarities 
were  developed  at  this  time.  It  was  at  Florence,  for 
instance  (and  not  in  a  prison),  that  Paganini  first  played 
upon  only  two — the  first  and  fourth — strings,  and  then 
upon  one — the  fourth — string.  Being  in  love  with  a 
lady  of  the  court,  who  reciprocated  his  attachment,  he 
gave  out  that  he  would  depict  upon  his  violin  a  Scene 
Amoureuse  •  the  treble  string,  we  presume,  was  the  lady, 
and  the  fourth  string  the  gentleman.  The  emotional 
dialogue  was  carried  on  between  the  two  in  a  manner 
which  fairly  overcame  the  audience  with  delight,  and  led 
to  the  Grand  Duchess  requesting  him  to  try  one  string 
alone  next  time.  How  he  succeeded  in  that  exploit 
is  known  to  all  the  world,  for  he  ever  afterward  re- 
tained an  extreme  partiality  for  the  fourth  string. 

In  1808  he  obtained  from  the  Grand  Duchess  leave 
to  travel.  His  fame  had  preceded  him.  Leghorn, 


114  II Y    3ILSICAL   MEMOIIIES. 

where  seven  years  before  lie  had  forfeited  his  famous 
Stradivarius  and  won  a  Guarnerius,  received  him  with 
open  arms,  although  his  appearance  was  marked  by  an 
amusing  contretemps.  He  came  on  to  the  stage  limping, 
having  run  a  nail  into  his  heel.  At  all  times  odd-look- 
ing, he,  no  doubt,  looked  all  the  more  peculiar  under 
these  circumstances,  and  there  was  some  tittering  among 
the  audience.  Just  as  he  began,  the  candles  fell  out  of 
his  desk — more  laughter.  He  went  on  playing  ;  the  first 
string  broke — more  laughter.  He  played  the  rest  of  the 
concerto  through  on  three  strings,  but  the  laughter  now 
changed  to  vociferous  applause  at  this  feat.  The  beggarly 
elements  seemed  of  little  consequence  to  this  magician. 
One  or  more  strings,  it  was  all  the  same  to  him  ;  indeed, 
it  is  recorded  that  he  seldom  paused  to  mend  his  strings 
when  they  broke,  which  they  not  unfrequently  did. 
Whether  from  abstraction  or  carelessness  he  would  allow 
them  at  times  to  grow  quite  ragged  on  the  finger-board, 
and  his  constant  practice  of  plucking  them,  guitar-like, 
with  the  left  hand,  as  well  as  harp-like  with  the  fore- 
finger- of  the  right  hand,  helped,  no  doubt,  to  wear 
them  out  rapidly. 

At  Ferrara  both  he  and  his  violin  met  with  a  different 
reception.  A  singer  had  failed  him,  and  he  had  in- 
duced a  danseuse  who  had  a  pretty  voice  to  come  to  the 
rescue.  Some  graceless  fellow  in  the  audience  hissed 
her  singing,  which  caused  Paganini  to  take  a  revenge 
little  suited  to  the  occasion.  In  his  last  solo  he  imitated 
the  cries  of  various  animals,  and  suddenly  advancing  to 
the  foot-lights,  caused  his  violin  to  bray  like  an  ass,  with 
the  exclamation,  "  This  is  for  him  who  hissed  !"  In- 
stead of  laughter,  the  pit  rose  in.  fury,  and  would  have 
soon  made  short  work  of  him  and  his  violin,  had  he  not 
escaped  by  a  back  door.  It  appears  that  the  country 


HIS   APPEARANCE.  115 

folk  round  Ferrara  called  the  town's  people,  whom  they 
hated,  "asses,"  and  were  in  the  habit  of  singing  out 
"  hee-haw  !"  whenever  they  had  to  allude  to  them  ; 
hence  the  angry  reception  of  Paganini's  musical  repartee. 

We  get  but  fugitive  glances  of  the  great  artist  during 
this  professional  tour,  but  it  is  too  true  that  at  Turin  he 
was  attacked  with  that  bowel  complaint  which  ever  after- 
ward haunted  him  like  an  evil  demon,  causing  him  the 
most  frightful  and  protracted  suffering,  and  interrupting 
his  career  sometimes  for  months  together.  His  distrust 
of  doctors  and  love  of  quack  medicines  no  doubt  made 
matters  worse,  and  from  this  time  his  strange  appearance 
grew  stranger,  his  pallor  more  livid,  his  gauntness  and 
thinness  more  spectral  and  grotesque,  while  greatly,  no 
doubt,  in  consequence  of  suffering,  his  face  assumed  that 
look  of  eagle  sharpness,  sometimes  varied  by  a  sardonic 
grin,  or  a  look  of  almost  demoniacal  fury,  which  artists 
have  caricatured  and  sculptors  have  tried  to  tone  down. 
Indeed,  he  must  have  been  altogether  an  exceptional 
being  to  behold  in  the  flesh.  People  who  knew  him  say 
that  the  figure  which  used  still  to  be  exhibited  at 
Madame  Tussaud's,  some  twenty-five  years  ago,  was  a 
remarkable  likeness.  He  looked  an  indifferently  dressed 
skeleton,  with  a  long  parchment  face,  deep  dark  eyes, 
full  of  flame,  long  lank  hair,  straggling  down  over  his 
shoulders.  His  walk  was  shambling  and  awkward,  the 
bones  seem  to  have  been  badly  strung  together,  he  ap- 
peared as  if  lie  had  been  fixed  up  hastily  on  wires  and 
the  wires  had  got  loose.  As  he  stood,  he  settled  himself 
on  one  hip,  at  a  gaunt  angle,  and  before  he  began,  the 
whole  business  looked  so  unpromising,  that  men  won- 
dered how  he  could  hold  his  violin  at  all,  much  less  play 
it! 

It  must  have  been  at  his  first  visit  to  Florence,  before 


116  MY    MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

his  appearance  was  familiar,  as  it  afterward  became,  to 
the  inhabitants  of  that  city,  that  we  get  one  of  those  side- 
views  of  the  man  which  are  more  precious  than  many 
dates  and  drier  details. 

Slowly  recovering  from  illness,  Paganini  repaired  to 
Florence,  probably  in  May  of  the  year  1809.  He  must 
have  then  Jived  in  almost  complete  solitude,  as  he  does 
not  appear  to  have  been  recognized  there  before  the 
month  of  October,  when  he  was  officially  recalled  to  his 
duties  by  the  late  Princess,  now  Grand  Duchess,  at  the 
Court  of  Florence. 

Those  who  have  wandered  in  spring-time  about  the  en- 
virons of  Florence,  know  the  indefinite  charm  there  is  in 
the  still  and  fertile  country,  without  the  walls  of  the  city. 
Outside  the  gate  of  the  Pitti,  on  the  summit  of  a  steep 
hill,  stands  Fiesole,  bathed  in  clear  air  and  warm  sun- 
shine. How  many  an  invalid  has  walked  up  that  wind- 
ing and  rugged  path,  gathering,  here  and  there,  a  sweet 
wild-flower,  resting  from,  time  to  time  to  drink  in  the 
delicious  air,  until  pure  health  seemed  borne  back  to  the 
feeble  frame  upon  the  soft  and  fragrant  breeze. 

Alone,  on  a  bright  morning,  a  tall,  ungainly  figure 
goes  slowly  up  the  hill  toward  Fiesole.  He  pauses  at 
times,  he  looks  round  abstractedly.  He  is  talking  to  him- 
self out  load,  unconscious  of  any  one  near  him- — he  ges- 
ticulates wildly — then  breaks  out  into  a  loud  laugh  ;  but 
stops  suddenly,  as  he  sees  coming  down  the  hill  a  young 
girl,  carrying  one  of  those  large  baskets  full  of  flowers 
so  commonly  seen  in  the  streets  of  Florence.  She  is 
beautiful  with  the  beauty  of  the  Florentine  girls  ;  the 
brown  flesh-tints  mellowed  with  reflected  light  from  the 
white  road  strewn  thick  with  marble-dust  ;  under  the 
wide  straw  hat  the  free  curls  flow  dark  and  thick,  clus- 
tering about  her  temples,  and  lowering  the  forehead. 


IX   THE    STORM.  117 

Suddenly  the  large  black  eyes,  so  common  among  the 
Italian  peasants,  seem  transfixed  with  something  be- 
tween wonder  and  fear,  as  they  fall  upon  the  uncouth 
figure  approaching  her.  In  another  moment,  conscious 
of  the  stranger's  intense  gaze,  she  stands  motionless,  like 
a  bird  charmed  by  a  serpent ;  then  she  trembles  invol- 
untarily from  head  to  foot.  A  strange  smile  steals  over 
the  pale  and  haggard  face  of  Paganini — was  he,  then, 
conscious  of  exercising  any  mesmeric  power  ?  At  times 
he  seemed  so  full  of  some  such  influence  that  individ-. 
uals,  as  well  as  crowds,  were  irresistibly  drawn  and  fas- 
cinated by  his  look. 

But  the  strange  smile  seemed  to  unloose  the  spell,  the 
startled  girl  passed  on,  and  the  solitary  artist  resumed 
his  walk  toward  Fiesole. 

Heavy  clouds  riven  with  spaces  of  light  were  driving 
before  the  wind.  Over  the  bridge  Delle  Grazie,  up  tho 
hill  once  more  without  the  gates  of  Florence,  we  pass 
toward  a  ruined  castle.  A  storm  seems  imminent,  the 
wind  whistles  and  howls  round  the  deserted  promontory, 
the  bare  ruin  that  has  braved  the  storms  of  centuries 
stands  up  dark  against  the  sky,  and  seems  to  exult  in  the 
fury  of  the  elements,  so  much  in  harmony  with  its  own 
wild  and  desolate  look.  But  what  are  those  low  wail- 
ings  ?  Is  it  the  wind,  or  some  human  being  in  anguish  ? 
The  traveller  rushes  forward — in  a  cavity  of  the  deep 
ruin,  among  the  tumbled  stones,  overgrown  with  moss 
and  turf,  lies  a  strange  figure — a  lonely,  haggard  man. 
He  listens  to  the  wind,  and  moans  in  answer,  as  though 
in  pain.  Is  he  the  magician  who  has  conjured  up  the 
tempest,  and  is  the  scene  before  us  all  unreal  ?  or  has 
the  tempest  entered  into  his  soul,  and  filled  him  with  its 
own  sad  voice  ?  Indeed,  as  he  lies  there,  his  pale, 
almost  livid  face  distorted,  his  wet  hair  streaming  wildly 


US  MY    MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

about  his  shoulders,  his  uncouth  form  writhing  with 
each  new  burst  of  the  hurricane — he  looks  the  very  im- 
personation of  the  storm  itself.  But,  on  being  observed, 
his  look  becomes  fixed — the  stranger  insensibly  recoils, 
and  feels  awkwardly  the  sense  of  intrusion.  If  the 
strange  man  is  in  pain  he  wants  no  help  ;  thus  rashly  ex- 
posed to  the  weather,  hardly  recovered  from  his  griev- 
ous malady,  he  may  well  be  actually  suffering  ;  but  most 
likely  he  is  merely  possessed  for  the  time  by  certain 
emotions  impressed  upon  his  sensitive  and  electric  organ- 
ization by  the  tempest  from  without.  He  is  drinking  in 
the  elemental  forces  which,  by  and  by,  he  will  give  out 
with  a  power  itself  almost  as  elemental. 

Some  of  us  may  have  walked  in  the  soft  moonlight 
under  the  long  avenue  (Cascine)  that  runs  by  the  brink 
of  the  rushing  Arno  straight  out  of  Florence.  We  can 
remember  how  the  birds  love  those  trees,  and  the 
broken  underwood  beneath  them.  When  the  city 
sleeps,  the  heart  of  those  woods  is  alive  ;  even  the  day- 
light birds  are  sometimes  aroused  by  the  nightingales,  as 
they  answer  each  other  in  notes  of  sweetness  long  drawn 
out,  and  tender  raptures  that  seem  to  swoon  and  faint 
into  the  still  more  tender  silences  of  the  summer  night. 
But  suddenly  the  birds'  song  is  checked — other  strains 
of  incomparable  sweetness  arise  in  the  wood.  The  birds 
are  silent,  they  pause  and  listen  ;  the  notes  are  like 
theirs,  but  more  exquisite — they  are  woven  by  a  higher 
art  into  phrases  of  inspiration  beyond  even  the  nightin- 
gale's gift.  The  strange  whistler  ceases,  and  the  birds 
resume,  timidly,  their  song  ;  again  the  unearthly  music 
breaks  forth,  and  mingles  with  theirs.  As  we  push 
apart  the  bushes,  we  discover  the  same  weird  figure  that 
but  lately  lay  moaning  in  the  storm  among  the  ruins 
upon  yonder  hill. 


OX   THE    GUITAR.  119 

The  person  to  whom  we  owe,  substantially,  the  above 
glimpses,  met  this  extraordinary  man  again  in  the  streets 
of  Florence  a  few  days  later.  A  merry  party  of  young 
people,  laughing  and  shouting,  pass  by  toward  the  Uffizi. 
We  listen  to  their  ringing  voices,  occupied  with  them- 
selves, and,  youth-like,  caring  for  nothing  at  the  time 
but  their  own  gayety,  when  suddenly  the  voices  fall,  the 
twanging  of  the  guitar  ceases  ;  a  curious  murmur  runs 
through  the  merry  throng,  and  not  a  pleasant  murmur  ; 
a  tall,  pale  man,  with  eyes  on  fire,  and  strange,  imperi- 
ous look,  has  pushed  brusquely  in  among  them. 

He  seizes  the  guitar,  and,  sweeping  its  strings  with 
passion,  causes  it  to  wail  like  a  zither,  then  peal  out  like 
the  strains  of  a  military  band,  and  finally  settle  into  the 
rich  chords  and  settled  cadences  of  a  strong  harp.  All 
resistance  and  murmuring  cease  as  the  astonished  party 
follow  him,  spell-bound.  His  cravat  flies  loose,  his  coat- 
tails  wave  madly  to  and  fro,  he  gesticulates  like  a 
maniac,  and  the  irresistible  music  streams  forth  louder, 
wilder,  more  magical  than  ever,  he  strides,  leaps,  dances 
forward  with  the  guitar,  which  is  no  longer  a  guitar,  but 
the  very  soul  of  Nicolo  Paganini.  A  few  days  later  still 
the  mystery  was  cleared  up.  Paganini  had  been  offi- 
cially called  to  Florence  by  the  Grand  Duchess  to  super- 
intend the  court  concerts,  and  the  whole  of  the  town 
was  soon  ringing  with  his  name. 

About  the  age  of  thirty,  at  which  time,  as  we  shall 
presently  narrate,  Paganini  became  free  never  again  to 
be  bound  by  any  official  appointment,  the  great  violin- 
ist had  exhausted  all  the  possible  resources  of  his  instru- 
ment. From  this  time  Paganini,  incredible  as  it  may 
appear,  seldom,  if  ever,  played,  except  at  concerts  and 
rehearsals,  and  not  always  even  at  rehearsals.  If  he 
ever  practised,  he  always  used  a  mute.  Mr.  Han-is,  who 


120  MY    MUSICAL    MEMORIES. 

for  twelve  months  acted  as  his  secretary,  and  seldom  left 
him,  never  saw  him  take  his  violin  from  its  case.  At 
the  hotels  where  he  stopped  the  sound  of  his  instrument 
was  never  heard.  He  used  to  say  that  he  had  worked 
enough,  and  had  earned  his  right  to  repose  ;  yet,  with- 
out an  effort,  he  continued  to  overcome  the  superhuman 
difficulties  which  he  himself  had  created  with  the  same 
unerring  facility,  and  ever  watched  by  the  eager  and  en- 
vious eyes  of  critics  and  rivals.  In  vain  !  No  false  in- 
tonation, no  note  out  of  tune,  no  failure  was  ever  per- 
ceptible. The  Times  critic,  reviewing  him  in  London 
some  years  before  his  death,  says  his  octaves  were  so  true 
that  they  sounded  like  one  note,  and  the  most  enormous 
intervals  with  triple  notes,  harmonics  and  guitar  effects, 
seem  to  have  been  invariably  taken  with  the  same  pre- 
cision. In  the  words  of  a  critical  judge,  M.  Fetis,  "  his 
hand  was  a  geometrical  compass,  which  divided  the 
finger-board  with  mathematical  precision."  There  is  an 
amusing  story  told  of  an  Englishman,  who  followed  him 
from  place  to  place,  to  hear  him  play  in  private,  in  the 
hope  of  discovering  his  "secret."  At  last,  after  many 
vain  attempts,  he  managed  to  be  lodged  in  the  next 
room  to  the  great  artist.  Looking  through  the  key- 
hole, he  beheld  him  seated  on  a  sofa,  about  to  take  his 
violin  from  its  case — at  last  !  He  raises  it  to  his  chin — 
but  the  bow  ? — is  left  in  the  case.  The  left  hand  merely 
measures  with  its  enormous  wiry  fingers  a  few  mechani- 
cal intervals,  and  the  instrument  is  replaced  in  silence  ; 
not  even  then  was  a  note  to  be  heard  ! 

Yet  every  detail  of  rehearsal  was  an  anxiety  to  him. 
Although  he  gave  a  prodigious  number  of  concerts,  he 
was  always  unusually  restless  and  abstracted  on  the 
morning  of  the  day  on  which  he  had  to  perform.  He 
would  be  idle  for  hours  on  his  sofa — or,  at  least,  he 


PERSONAL   TRAITS.  121 

seemed  to  be  idle — perhaps  the  works  were  then  being 
wound  up  before  going  to  rehearsal.  He  would  then, 
before  starting,  take  up  his  violin,  examine  it  carefully, 
especially  the  screws,  and,  having  satisfied  himself,  re- 
place it  in  its  shabby-worn  case  without  striking  a  note. 
Lastly,  he  would  sort  and  arrange  the  orchestral  parts  of 
his  solos,  and  go  off  to  rehearsal.  He  was  very  unpunc- 
tual,  and  on  one  occasion  kept  the  whole  band  waiting 
for  an  hour,  and  was  at  last  found  sheltering  from  the 
rain  under  a  colonnade,  rather  than  take  a  cab.  This 
was  in  London.  At  the  rehearsal  there  was  always  the 
most  intense  eagerness  on  the  part  of  the  band  to  hear 
him  play,  and  when  he  came  to  one  of  his  prodigious 
cadenzas,  the  musicians  would  rise  in  their  seats,  and 
lean  forward  to  watch  every  movement,  and  follow  every 
sound.  Paganini  would  then  just  play  a  few  common- 
place notes,  stop  suddenly,  and,  turning  round  to  the 
band,  wave  his  bow,  with  a  malicious  smile,  and  say, 
"  Et  caetera,  Messieurs!"  If  anything  went  wrong  he 
got  into  a  paroxysm  of  fury  ;  but  when  things  went 
well  he  freely  showed  his  satisfaction,  and  often  ex- 
claimed, "  Bravissimo  sieti  tuti  virtuosi  !" 

He  could  be  very  courteous  in  manner,  and  was  not  per- 
sonally unpopular  with  his  fellow-musicians,  who  stood 
greathr  in  awe  of  him.  No  one  ever  saw  the  principal 
parts  of  his  solos,  as  he  played  by  heart,  for  fear  of  the 
music  being  copied.  The  rehearsal  over,  he  carried 
even  the  orchestral  parts  away  with  him.  He  would  then 
go  straight  home,  take  a  light  meal,  throw  himself  on  his 
bed,  and  sleep  profoundly  until  his  carriage  arrived  to 
take  him  to  the  concert.  His  toilet  was  very  simple, 
and  took  hardly  any  time  ;  his  coat  was  buttoned  tightly 
over  his  chest,  and  marked  the  more  conspicuously  the 
impossible  angles  of  his  figure  ;  his  trousers  hung  loose 


122  MY    MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

for  trousers  of  the  period  ;  his  cravat  was  tight  about  lus 
.neck.  He  sweated  so  profusely  over  his  solos  that  he 
always  carried  a  clean  shirt  in  his  violin  trunk,  and 
changed  his  linen  once  at  least  during  the  concert.  At 
concert  time  he  usually  seemed  in  excellent  spirits.  His 
first  question  on  arriving  was  always,  "  Is  there  a  large 
audience  ?"  If  the  room  was  full  he  would  say,  "  Excel- 
lent people  !  good,  good  !"  If  by  any  chance  the  boxes 
were  empty  he  would  say,  "  Some  of  the  effects  will  be 
lost."  He  kept  his  audience  waiting  a  long  time,  and 
he  would  sometimes  say,  ' '  I  have  played  better, "  or  "  I 
have  played  worse,"  and  occasionally  his  first  solo 
would  be  more  effective  than  his  last.  After  once  or 
twice  trying  the  music  of  Kreutzer  and  Rode  in  public, 
he  decided  never  to  play  any  but  his  own,  and  said  to 
his  secretary,  Mr.  Harris,  "  I  have  my  own  peculiar 
style  ;  in  accordance  with  this  I  regulate  my  composi- 
tions. I  had  much  rather  write  a  piece  in  which  I  can 
trust  nrvself  entirely  to  my  own  musical  impressions.'* 
"  His  art,"  observes  M.  Fetis,  "was  an  art  born  with 
him,  the  secret  of  which  he  has  carried  to  the  grave." 

Some  have  pretended  that,  as  Paganini  never  cared  to 
play  except  in  public,  his  art  was  nothing  to  him  but  a 
means  of  making  money.  It  would  be,  perhaps,  nearer 
the  truth  to  say  that  his  art  was  so  entirely  himself,  that 
lie  did  not  require,  except  at,  seasons,  and  chiefly  for 
others,  to  give  it  outward  expression.  He  needed  no 
more  to  play  than  Beethoven  needed  to  hear.  Happier 
than  Beethoven,  he  was  not  deprived  of  the  power  of 
realizing  outwardly  the  art  in  which  he  inwardly  lived  ; 
but  probably  the  creations  of  his  spirit  infinitely  out- 
stripped the  utmost  limits  even  of  his  executive  powers, 
until  in  his  eyes  they  seemed,  after  all,  the  faint  and  in- 
adequate symbols  of  his  wild  and  inspired  dreams. 


ART    AND    LIFE.  12IJ 

There  are  times  when  the  deepest  feeling  is  the  most 
silent — music  may  come  to  the  aid  of  words  ;  but  there 
is  a  point  at  which  music  itself  is  a  mere  beggarly  element. 
What  made  Paganini  so  exceptionally  great  was  the 
portentous  development,  the  strength  and  independence, 
of  the  emotional  fountain  within.  The  whole  of  life 
was  to  him  nothing  but  so  many  successions  of  psycho- 
logical heat  and  cold.  Incidents  immediately  became 
clothed  with  a  psychic  atmosphere — perhaps  the  life  of 
emotion  was  never  so  completely  realized  in  itself,  an.d 
for  itself,  as  in  the  soul-isolation  of  Paganini.  That 
life,  as  far  as  it  could  be  individually  expressed,  was  ut- 
tered forth  by  his  violin.  On  his  concert  bills  he  used  to 

put, 

Paganini  fara  sentire  il  suo  violino. 

What  the  tempest  had  told  him  his  violin  would  pro- 
claim ;  what  the  summer  night  had  whispered  was 
stereotyped  in  his  soul,  and  the  midnight  song  of  birds 
came  forth  from  the  Cremona  depths  at  his  bidding. 
Kor  was  there  any  phase  of  passion  unknown  to  him, 
£ave,  alas  !  the  phase  of  a  pure  and  lasting  love.  His  wild 
soul  had  early  consumed  itself  with  unbridled  excesses, 
and  although  in  his  maturer  years  he  grew  more  sober  in 
such  matters,  it  was  not  before  he  had  fathomed  the 
perilous  depths  of  more  than  one  grande  passion,  and 
made  himself  master  of  all  its  subtle  expressions. 

When,  then,  we  are  told  that  he  seldom  played,  we 
must  remember  that  his  inmost  life  was  itself  one  vast 
cosmos  of  imaginary  concord  and  discord — he  was  music, 
although  only  at  times  "the  tides  of  music's  golden 
sea  "  would  burst  forth  with  incomparable  splendor,  and 
gather  a  kind  of  concrete  existence  in  sound  ;  yet  to  him 
his  own  inspirations  were  as  real — perhaps  more  real — 
without  it.  For  music  exists  apart  from  physical  vibra- 


124  MY    MUSICAL    MEMORIES. 

tions,  nor  can  such  vibrations,  however  subtle  and 
varied,  express  it  wholly  as  it  lives  in  the  creative  heart. 
The  ear  of  the  soul  hears  what  no  ear  of  sense  can  hear, 
and  a  music  fairer  than  anything  on  earth  is  often  sound- 
ing in  the  spirit  of  the  true  musical  seer.  Nay,  does  he 
not  feel,  like  Beethoven,  the  bitter  descent  when  he 
formulates  his  thoughts  upon  paper,  strikes  the  keys,  or 
sets  in  vibration  the  strings  which  after  all  are  but  feeble 
apologies  for  the  ideal  beauty,  the  intense,  the  subtle,  or 
exalted  harmonies  of  the  inner  life  ? 

Shall  we  now  assist  at  one  of  Paganini's  perform- 
ances ?  How  many  descriptions  have  been  written,  and 
how  inadequate  !  It  is  hardly  possible  to  do  more  than 
describe  a  few  salient  peculiarities.  But  even  our  pale 
sketch  would  be  incomplete  without  such  an  attempt. 

Enter  Paganini — a  shudder  of  curiosity  and  excite- 
ment runs  through  the  crowded  theatre,  the  men  ap- 
plaud, the  women  concentrate  a  double-barrel  fire  of 
opera-glasses  upon  the  tall,  ungainly  figure  that  shuffles 
forward  from  the  side  scenes  to  the  foot -lights,  with 
such  an  air  of  haughtiness,  and  yet  so  many  mechanical 
bows.  As  the  applause  rises  again  and  again,  the  appari- 
tion stands  still,  looks  round,  takes  in  at  a  glance  the  vast 
assembly.  Then,  seizing  hjs  violin,  he  hugs  it  tightly 
between  his  chin  and  chest,  and  stands  for  a  few  seconds 
gazing  at  it  in  motionless  abstraction.  The  audience  is 
now  completely  hushed,  and  all  eyes  are  riveted  upon  one 
silent  and  almost  grotesque  form.  Suddenly  Paganini 
raises  his  bow  and  dashes  it  down  like  a  sledge-hammer 
upon  the  strings.  The  opening  of  the  concerto  abounds 
in  solo  passages,  in  which  he  has  to  be  left  almost  without 
accompaniment  ;  the  orchestra  is  reserved  for  the  tuttis 
and  slight  interludes.  Paganini  now  revels  in  his  dis- 
tinctive and  astonishing  passages,  which  hold  the  audi- 


HIS    INDEPENDENCE.  125 

encc  breathless.  At  one  time  torrents  of  chords  peal 
forth,  as  from  some  mimic  orchestra  ;  harmonic  passages 
are  thrown  off  with  the  sharpness  and  sonority  of  the 
flute  accompanied  by  the  guitar,  independent  phrases 
being  managed  by  the  left  hand  plucking  the  strings, 
•while  the  right  is  playing  legato  passages  with  the  bow. 
The  most  difficult  intervals  are  spanned  with  ease— the 
immense,  com  pass- like  fingers  glide  up  and  down  every 
part  of  the  key-board,  and  seem  to  be  in  ever  so  many 
places  at  once.  Heavy  chords  are  struck  indifferently 
with  the  point  or  heel  of  the  bow,  as  if  each  inch  of  the 
magic  wand  were  equally  under  control  ;  but  just  when 
these  prodigious  feats  of  skill  are  causing  the  senses  to 
reel  with  something  like  a  painful  strain,  a  low,  meas- 
ured melody  steals  forth  and  penetrates  the  souls  of  all 
present,  until  some  of  the  audience  break  out  into  un- 
controllable applause,  while  others  arc  melted  to  tears, 
overpowered  by  the  thrilling  accents.  Then,  attenuated 
as  it  were  to  a  thread — but  still  distinctly  audible  and 
resonant — the  divine  sound  would  die  away  ;  and  sud- 
denly a  grotesque  flash  of  humor  would  dart  up  from  a 
lower  sphere  and  shift  the  emotional  atmosphere,  as  the 
great  maestro  too  soon  dashes,  with  the  impetuosity  of  a 
whirlwind,  into  the  final  "  rondo  "  or  "  moto  perpetuo." 

Paganini  was  not  inexorable  about  encores — he  was 
always  gratified  by  applause.  After  the  concert  the 
people  often  waited  outside  to  accompany  him  to  his 
hotel.  He  seemed  delighted  with  this  kind  of  hom- 
age, and  would  go  out  at  such  seasons  and  mix  freely 
with  them  ;  but  he  was  often  quite  inaccessible,  and 
bent  upon  absolute  seclusion. 

Let  us  now  resume  the  chronological  narrative. 
Toward  the  end  of  1812,  Paganini  quarrelled  with  his 
royal  patroness,  the  Grand  Duchess  of  Tuscany.  She 


126  MY   MUSICAL  MEMORIES. 

liad  given  him  leave,  as  above  mentioned,  to  wear  at 
court  the  uniform  of  captain  of  the  body-guard,  and  one 
night  he  appeared  in  the  orchestra  attired  in  this  splen- 
did costume.  The  Duchess  seems  to  have  thought  this 
inappropriate,  and  sent  word  desiring  him  to  change  his 
uniform  for  an  ordinary  dress.  The  offended  artist  de- 
clined point-blank,  and  that  evening  threw  up  his  ap- 
pointment and  left  the  Florentine  Court  and  all  its 
works  forever.  It  is  not  at  all  improbable  that  Paganini, 
who  could  now  command  any  sum  of  money,  had  grown 
tired  of  official  duties,  which  could  no  longer  shed  any 
new  lustre  upon  him,  and  that,  longing  to  be  free,  he 
gladly  availed  himself  of  the  first  ready  pretext  for 
flight.  In  vain  his  royal  mistress  sent  after  him,  implor- 
ing him  to  return.  Paganini  was  inexorable,  and  it  was 
even  whispered  that  the  Duchess's  entreaties  were 
prompted  by  a  feeling  still  more  tender  than  the  love  of 
music — a  feeling  which  Paganini  had  ceased  to  recipro- 
cate. 

Paganini  was  very  fond  of  Milan,  and  he  stayed  there 
during  the  greater  part  of  1813.  He  visited  that  city 
three  times  in  five  years,  staying  often  for  several 
months,  and  giving  in  all  thirty-seven  concerts,  most  of 
them  at  the  Scala. 

It  was  in  1811  that  he  first  made  the  acquaintance  of 
Rossini  at  Bologna.  The  great  composer,  like  every 
other  connoisseur,  regarded  him  with  admiration  and 
astonishment,  arid  a  friendship  was  then  begun  which 
was  strengthened  when  the  two  celebrities  met  in  1817 
at  Rome,  and  in  1831  at  Paris. 

Paganini  treated  his  fellow-musicians  and  rivals  with 
simple  and  unaffected  courtesy.  He  expressed  his  great 
admiration  of  Spohr's  violin -playing,  and  he  went  all  the 
way  from  Genoa  to  Milan  to  hear  Lafont.  When  they 


HIS    HEALTH.  127 

met,  Lafont  proposed  that  they  should  give  a  concert,  in 
which  each  should  play  a  solo.  "  I  excused  myself," 
Bays  Paganini,  "  by  saying  that  such  experiments  are 
always  impolitic,  as  the  public  invariably  looked  upon 
them  as  duels.  Lafont,  not  seeing  it  in  this  light,  I  was 
compelled  to  accept  the  challenge."  Commenting  upon 
the  results,  he  added  with  singular  candor  and  modesty  : 
"  Lafont  probably  surpassed  me  in  tone,  but  the  applause 
which  followed  my  efforts  convinced  me  that  I  did  not 
suffer  by  comparison.' '  Although  usually  anxious,  more 
for  the  sake  of  others  than  for  himself,  to  avoid  such 
contests,  he  never  declined  them  ;  and  a  similar  trial  of 
skill  took  place  between  him  and  the  Polish  violinist, 
Laprinski,  in  1818,  at  Plaisance,  the  t\vo  artists  remain- 
ing excellent  friends. 

At  this  time  Paganini' s  health  seems  to  have  been  in 
an  unusually  critical  condition.  We  have  noticed  that 
he  seldom  consulted  doctors,  and  when  he  did  so  he  was 
not  in  the  habit  of  following  their  advice  ;  but  his 
credulity  was  worse  than  his  scepticism.  He  dosed  him- 
self immoderately  with  some  stuff  called  "  Leroy  ;"  he 
believed  that  this  could  cure  anything.  It  usually  pro- 
duced a  powerful  agitation  in  his  nervous  system,  and 
generally  ended  in  upsetting  the  intestinal  functions. 
Sometimes  it  seems  to  have  deprived  him  of  the  power 
of  speech. 

In  1816  he  went  to  Venice,  where  he  seems  fairly  to 
have  collapsed  after  giving  a  few  concerts.  However, 
in  the  following  year  (1817)  he  was  much  better,  and 
went  to  Genoa  to  see  his  mother,  taking  Milan  en  route. 
He  has  been  called  avaricious,  suspicious  of  his  kind,  and 
devoid  of  all  natural  affection.  He,  no  doubt,  loved 
money,  and  had  a  general  distrust  of  his  friends,  but  it  is 
certain  that  he  was  attached  to  his  mother,  and  took  care 


128  MY    MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

to  supply  her  with  every  comfort.     She  writes  to  him 
some  years  later  : 

I  am  delighted  to  find  that  after  your  travels  to  Paris  and  London, 
you  purpose  visiting  Genoa  expressly  to  embrace  me.  My  dream  has 
been  fulfilled,  and  that  which  God  promised  me  has  been  accom- 
plished— your  name  is  great,  and  Art,  with  the  help  of  God,  has 
placed  you  in  a  position  of  independence.  We  are  all  well.  In  the 
name  of  all  your  relations  I  thank  you  for  the  sums  of  money  you 
have  sent.  Omit  nothing  that  will  render  your  name  immortal. 
Eschew  the  vices  of  great  cities,  remembering  that  you  have  a 
mother  who  loves  you  affectionately.  She  will  never  cease  her  sup- 
plications to  the  All-powerful  for  your  preservation.  Embrace  your 
amiable  companion  for  me,  and  kiss  little  Achille.  Love  me  as  I 
love  you.  Your  ever  affectionate  mother, 

THEKESA  PAGANINI. 

The  ' '  amiable  companion ' '  seems  to  have  been  a 
cantatrice,  Antonia  Blanchi  di  Como,  with  whom  he  ap- 
pears to  have  lived  at  one  time,  and  who  bore  him  his 
only  son,  "  the  little  Achille." 

In  the  same  year,  1817,  he  arrived  in  Rome  in  time 
for  the  Carnival,  where  he  excited  the  greatest  enthu- 
siasm. He  was  frequently  to  be  found  at  the  palace  of 
Count  de  Kaunitz,  the  Austrian  Ambassador,  where 
he  met  all  the  great  people  in  Rome,  and  among  them 
M.  de  Metternich,  who  did  his  utmost  to  persuade  him 
to  visit  Vienna.  From  this  time  Paganini  determined, 
sooner  or  later,  to  visit  the  principal  cities  in  Germany 
and  France,  but  the  state  of  his  health  was  still  very 
precarious.  In  1818-19  he  gave  concerts  at  Arerona, 
Plaisance,  Turin,  and  Florence,  after  which  he  visited 
Naples  for  the  first  time.  His  advent  had  been  long 
looked  for  with  feelings  of  jealous  expectation  and  dis- 
trust. The  chief  professors  and  musicians  of  the  place, 
who  had  never  heard  him,  were  not  very  favorably  dis- 
posed. They,  however,  gave  him  a  reception,  on  which 
occasion  a  piece  of  music  was  casually  placed  before  him, 


INHUMAN  TREATMENT. — TRAVELS.         12D 

full  of  the  most  ingenious  difficulties  that  could  be  de- 
vised. Paganini  was  not  unaccustomed  to  this  kind  of 
trap,  and  upon  being  requested  to  play  it  at  sight,  he 
merely  glanced  at  it  and  played  it  off  with  the  greatest 
ease. 

But  he  had  even  worse  foes  than  the  professors.  He 
seems  to  have  got  into  damp  apartments  close  under 
St.  Elmo,  and  his  lungs,  at  no  time  very  strong,  now 
showed  unmistakable  signs  of  consumption.  The  land- 
lord, fearing  that  he  would  die  in  his  house,  actually 
turned  him  and  all  he  possessed  out  into  the  street,  where 
his  friend,  Ciandelli,  happening  to  come  by  at  the  very 
nick  of  time,  administered  a  sound  thrashing  to  the 
brutal  host  with  a  stick,  and  took  the  invalid  artist  to 
a  more  comfortable  lodging.  In  1820  he  returned  to 
his  favorite  city,  Milan,  where  he  founded  a  musical 
society,  conducted  several  concerts,  and  received  various 
crowns,  medals,  and  decorations.  In  December  of  the 
same  year  he  returned  to  Home,  and  in  the  following 
year,  1821,  paid  a  second  visit  to  Naples,  giving  concerts 
at  the  Fondo  and  the  Theatre  Nuovo.  At  the  end  of 
the  year  he  crossed  over  to  Sicily,  but  the  people  of 
Palermo  hardly  appreciated  him  ;  and  in  1822  he  was 
again  at  Yenice  and  Plaisance.  From  thence  he  would 
have  gone  straight  to  Germany,  in  accordance  with  the 
proposals  of  Metternich  ;  but  on  his  way  to  Pavia,  in 
1S23,  he  was  attacked  by  his  old  complaint,  and  for  some 
time  it  did  not  seem  likely  that  he  would  recover.  He  was 
advised  to  go  to  Genoa  for  rest,  and  while  there  he  re- 
covered sufficiently  to  give  concerts  at  the  Theatre  St. 
Augustine,  when  the  prophet  in  his  own  country  for 
once  attracted  enthusiastic  crowds.  The  Milanese,  who 
had  never  expected  to  see  him  alive  again,  gave  him  an 
enthusiastic  reception  at  the  Scala,  on  the  12th  of  June, 


130  MY    MUSICAL   MEMOKIES. 

1824.  He  seems  to  have  been  still  unable  to  tear  him- 
self away  from  Italy,  for  in  the  same  month  he  returned 
to  Genoa,  then  passed  to  Venice,  and  in  1825  he  was  at 
Trieste.  Then  he  proceeded,  for  the  third  time,  to 
Naples,  and  going  over  to  Palermo,  for  the  second  time, 
he  now  met  with  a  most  astonishing  success.  He  re- 
mained in  Sicily  for  a  whole  year,  and  seems  in  this  de- 
licious climate  to  have  recovered  his  health  sufficiently 
to  undertake  a  long  professional  tour.  He  was  then  de- 
tained in  Italy  for  nearly  two  years  more,  for  in  1826  he 
visited  again  Trieste,  Venice,  and  gave  five  concerts  at 
Rome.  In  1827  he  was  decorated  by  Pope  Leo  XII. 
with  the  Order  of  the  Golden  Spur.  He  then  repaired 
to  Florence,  where  a  disease  in  one  of  his  legs  stopped 
his  progress  for  several  months.  It  was  only  in  the 
spring  of  1828  that  he  went  on  to  Milan,  where  he  at 
length  gave  his  farewell  concert,  before  starting  on  his 
long-projected  visit  to  Vienna. 

To  dwell  upon  the  reports  of  his  first  appearance  at 
Vienna  would  be  only  to  repeat  what  has  already  been 
said.  "  The  first  note  that  he  played  on  his  Guarne- 
rius,"  writes  M.  Schilling  in  the  Lexique  Universel  de 
Musigue,  "  indeed,  from  his  first  step  into  the  room, 
his  reputation  was  decided  in  Germany.  Acted  upon, 
as  by  an  electric  spark,  a  brilliant  halo  of  glory  appeared 
to  invest  his  whole  person  ;  ho  stood  before  us  like  a 
miraculous  apparition  in  the  domain  of  Art  !"  lie  gave 
concerts  in  the  capital  of  Austria  on  the  13th,  IGth,  aiul 
18th  of  April,  1828.  The  greatest  players  and  musicians 
from  all  parts  flocked  to  hear  him.  Mayseder,  Jansa, 
Slawich,  Strebinger,  Bohni,  united  in  extolling  the  new 
prodigy.  In  a  very  few  days  Vienna  seemed  to  be 
turned  upside  down — no  class  of  people  was  unmoved 
by  the  presence  of  this  extraordinary  man.  The  news- 


TRIUMPHS   AT   VIEXXA.  131 

papers  were  full  of  verses  and  articles  on  Paganmi. 
Cravats,  coats,  gloves,  hats,  shoes,  and  even  cigar-cases 
and  snuff-boxes — everything  was  now  d  la  Paganini. 
The  fashionable  cooks  called  new  dishes  by  his  name  ; 
any  great  stroke  at  billiards  was  a  coup  d  la  Paganini. 

He  stayed  several  months  at  Vienna,  but  time  did  not 
injure  his  popularity  ;  his  talent  bore  the  most  critical 
inspection  all  round — he  was  at  once  colossal  in  the 
breadth  and  majesty  of  his  effects,  and  microscopic  in 
the  perfection  and  subtlety  of  his  details.  At  the  acme 
of  his  fame  he  left  Vienna,  and  commenced  a  tour 
through  Austria,  Bohemia,  Saxony,  Poland,  Bavaria, 
Prussia,  and  the  Rhenish  Provinces.  Prague  was  the 
only  city  which  failed  to  appreciate  him.  There  was  a 
stupid  rivalry,  of  which  we  find  traces  in  the  days  of 
Mozart,  between  Vienna  and  Prague,  and  it  was  gener- 
ally understood  that  whoever  was  applauded  at  Vienna 
was  to  be  hissed  at  Prague,  and  vice  versa.  Bat  on 
reaching  Berlin  the  great  artist  was  received  with  such 
an  ovation,  that  he  is  said  to  have  exclaimed,  on  his  first 
appearance,  "  Here  is  my  Vienna  public  !" 

From  this  time  to  the  end  of  his  life,  the  wildest 
stories  began  to  be  circulated  about  him,  chiefly  in 
the  Italian  and  French  newspapers  ;  but  the  Leipzig 
Gazette  du  Monde  Elegant  cannot  be  held  quite 
blameless,  for  it  inserted  one  of  the  most  extravagant  of 
these  tales.  One  man  gravely  affirmed  that  Paganini's 
miracles  of  skill  were  no  longer  to  be  wondered  at, 
because  he  had  seen  the  devil  standing  close  behind  him 
moving  his  arms  for  him.  Another  eye-witness  wrote 
that  he  had  for  some  time  observed  a  beautiful  woman 
at  Paganini's  concerts  ;  he  went  to  the  theatre  in  the 
hope  of  again  seeing  her  on  the  occasion  of  Pagani- 
ni's last  performance.  The  master  appeared,  played 


132  MY    MUSICAL   MEMOllIES. 

divinely  ;  the  house  was  crammed,  but  where  was  the 
lady  ?  Presently — in  one  of  the  soft  pauses — a  deep 
sigh  was  heard  ;  it  proceeded  from  the  beautiful  lady  ; 
tears  were  streaming  down  her  cheeks.  A  mysterious 
person  was  seated  by  her  side,  with  whom  Paganini  ex- 
changed a  ghastly  smile  ;  the  lady  arid  her  cavalier  soon 
rose;  the  strange  cavalier  grasped  her  hand — she  grew 
deadly  pale.  They  proceeded  out  of  the  theatre.  In  a 
narrow  by-path  stood  a  carriage  with  coal-black  steeds — 
the  horses'  eyes  seemed  on  fire  ;  the  two  entered,  the 
carriage  vanished — where,  apparently,  there  was  no  road 
at  all.  The  inference  of  all  which  is  that  Paganini  was  in 
league  with  the  devil  !  It  is  strange  but  true  that  these 
absurd  legends  gained  some  credence  among  the  igno- 
rant populace  of  Italy  and  France,  though  they  were 
probably  laughed  at  in  Germany. 

But  other  stories  of  a  different  kind  annoyed  him  far 
more.  He  was  a  ruffian  \vho  had  murdered  one  mistress, 
and  decamped  with  another  man's  wife  ;  he  was  an  es- 
caped convict  ;  he  was  a  political  busybody.  He  was 
a  spy,  a  thief,  an  immoral  swindler  ;  he  had  been  in 
prison,  it  was  said,  for  years,  and  had  thus  learned  his 
skill  upon  one  string,  all  the  others  having  been  broken. 
It  is  necessary,  even  at  this  time  of  day,  to  give  a  dis- 
tinct denial  to  this  last  legend.  Paganini' s  morals  were 
not  above,  but  they  were  not  below,  the  average  of  the 
somewhat  dissolute  state  of  society  in  which  it  was  his 
misfortune  to  have  been  born  and  bred.  He  never  com- 
mitted a  murder,  or  fought  a  duel,  or  betrayed  a  friend, 
or  left  without  provision  those  whom  he  had  given  just 
claims  upon  him.  As  to  politics,  he  knew  nothing  and 
cared  nothing  for  them  ;  and  he  never  read  the  news- 
papers except  when  they  contained  something  about 
himself.  In  Paris  they  pasted  up  a  coarse  wood-cut  of 


PAOANLX1  S    MORALS.  Ud 

Paganini    chained   in   a   dungeon  about   the  walls  and 

c5  O 

hoardings  of  the  city.  Paganini  describes  himself  as 
having  stood  before  it  in  nmte  astonishment,  until  a 
crowd  gathered  round  him,  and,  recognizing  the  like- 
ness, mobbed  and  hustled  him  in  the  most  inconvenient 
manner.  It  was  these  reports  that  he  afterward  bitterly 
complained  of,  and  M.  Fetis,  at  his  request,  drew  up 
a  letter,  which  was  afterward  published  throughout 
Europe,  in  which  the  aggrieved  violinist  vindicates  his 
character  from  the  current  calumnies.  His  protesta- 
tions, however,  were  far  from  stilling  the  rumors,,  and, 
when  he  arrived  in  London,  some  years  later,  there  was 
no  absurd  and  extravagant  tale  about  him  that  was  not 
eagerly  caught  up  and  circulated  throughout  the  length 
and  breadth  of  the  land.  A  lesser  man  might  have 
courted  this  sort  of  notoriety,  but  Paganini,  who  could 
do  without  it,  was  intensely  annoyed  and  wounded. 
We  cannot  follow  the  great  violinist  in  detail  through 
his  German  campaign,  in  the  years  1828-29-30,  but 
some  notion  of  his  way  of  life  may  draw  his  personality 
a  little  closer  to  the  reader  ere  we  prepare  to  greet  him 
on  our  own  shores. 

Ill  health,  at  times  acute  suffering,  which  turned  his 
pale  bony  face  to  a  green,  livid  hue,  an  intensely  sus- 
ceptible nervous  system,  an  outward  life  alternating 
between  scenes  of  highly- wrought  excitement,  amazing 
exertion,  and  fitful  repose — these  causes  combined  to  pro- 
duce a  character  singular  for  its  mingled  abstraction  and 
plasticity.  At  times  he  seemed  in  the  body,  at  other 
times  out  of  the  body  ;  sometimes  he  appeared  to  be  only 
semi-conscious  of  life,  at  other  times  more  intensely  con- 
scious than  any  dozen  people  put  together.  Physical 
causes  acted  at  times  oddly  and  instantly  upon  his 
brain  ;  at  others  they  found  him  like  stone.  He  was 


134  MY   MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

not  always  open  to  impressions,  which  at  certain 
moments  would  find  him  so  receptive  that  he  became 
the  utter  incarnation  of  them.  He  was  full  of  contra- 
dictions, which  he  cared  little  to  explain  either  to  himself 
or  to  others.  He  travelled  with  the  utmost  speed  from 
place  to  place  ;  in  the  hottest  weather  he  would  have 
all  the  carriage  windows  closed.  Although  latterly  his 
lungs  affected  his  voice,  which  became  thin  and  feeble, 
he  delighted  to  talk  loudly  when  rattling  over  the 
roads  ;  the  noise  of  the  wheels  seemed  to  excite  him, 
and  set  his  brain  going.  He  never  entered  an  inn  on 
the  road,  but  would  sit  in  his  carriage  until  the  horses 
were  ready,  or  walk  up  arid  down  wrapped  in  his  great 
cloak,  and  resent  being  spoken  to.  Arrived  at  his 
hotel,  he  would  throw  all  his  doors  and  windows  open, 
and  take  what  he  called  an  air  bath  ;  but  he  never  ceased 
to  abuse  the  climate  of  Germany,  and  said  that  Italy  was 
the  only  place  fit  to  live  in.  His  luggage  was  extremely 
simple — a  small  napkin  might  have  contained  the  whole 
of  his  wardrobe  ;  a  coat,  a  little  linen  and  a  hat-box,  a 
small  carpet-bag,  a  shabby  trunk,  containing  his  Guar- 
nerius  violin,  his  jewels,  a  clean  shirt,  and  his  money — 
that  was  all.  He  carried  papers  of  immense  value  in  a 
red  pocket-book,  along  with  concert  tickets,  letters,  and 
accounts.  These  last  no  one  but  himself  could  read,  as 
he  knew  hardly  any  arithmetic,  and  calculated,  but  with 
great  accuracy,  on  some  method  of  his  own.  He  cared 
little  where  he  slept,  and  seldom  noticed  what  he  ate  or 
drank.  He  never  complained  of  the  inns — everyplace 
seemed  much  alike  to  him — out  of  Italy  ;  he  detested 
them  all  equally.  He  seldom  noticed  scenery,  or  paid 
attention  to  the  sights  of  foreign  towns.  To  himself  he 
was  the  only  important  fact  everywhere.  He  often 
started  without  food  in  the  early  morning,  and  remained 


PAQANIXl'S   TEMPERAMENT.  135 

fasting  all  day.  At  night  he  would  take  a  light  supper, 
and  some  chamomile  tea,  and  sleep  soundly  until  morn- 
ing. At  times  lie  ate  ravenously.  He  remained  taci- 
turn for  days,  and  then  he  would  have  all  his  meals  sent 
rip  to  his  room  ;  but  at  some  hotels  he  would  dine  at  the 
table  d'hote,  and  join  freely  in  conversation.  He  lay  on 
his  sofa  doing  nothing  the  greater  part  of  every  day  ; 
but  when  making  plans  for  the  publication  of  his  works 
or  the  founding  of  a  musical  institution,  which  at  one 
time  occupied  much  of  his  thoughts,  he  would  stride  up 
and  down  his  room,  and  talk  in  a  rapid  and  animated 
manner.  After  dinner  he  habitually  sat  in  his  room  in 
total  darkness  until  half-past  ten,  when  he  went  to  bed. 
Sometimes  from  sixty  to  eighty  people,  eager  to  see 
him,  would  wait  upon  him  at  his  hotel  in  the  course  of 
the  day.  When  compelled  to  see  visitors,  he  was 
polite  ;  but  the  intrusion  of  strangers  fatigued  and  an- 
noyed him,  and  he  often  refused  himself  to  every  one. 
He  would  bolt  his  door,  and  not  take  the  least  notice  of 
any  knocks. 

He  would  sit  for  hours  almost  motionless  in  a  kind  of 
trance,  and  apparently  absorbed  in  deep  thought ;  but 
he  was  not  always  averse  to  society.  He  was  fond  of 
conversing  with  a  few  friends,  and  entered  into  whatever 
games  and  recreations  were  going  on  with  much  zest ; 
but  if  any  one  mentioned  music,  he  would  relapse  into  a 
sullen  silence,  or  go  off  to  some  other  part  of  the  room. 
He  disliked  dining  out  ;  but  when  he  accepted  he  usu- 
ally ate  largely  of  everything  on  the  table,  after  which 
he  was  generally  attacked  by  his  old  bowel  complaint. 
At  the  time,  however,  he  would  eat  and  drink  largely 
•without  any  inconvenience.  Although  he  mixed  freely 
with  the  world,  like  Chopin,  he  was  a  solitary  man,  and 
reserved  to  the  last  degree.  No  one  seemed  to  be  in  his 


13G  MY    MUSICAL   MEMOIUES. 

confidence.  He  had  an  excellent  memory — yet  certain 
faces  seemed  to  pass  from  him  absolutely.  His  fidelity 
to  both  his  parents  was  not  the  least  remarkable  point  in 
his  strange  character,  and  although  ardently  attached  to 
money,  he  could  be  generous  at  the  call  of  what  he  con- 
sidered duty,  and  even  lavish  when  charity  was  con- 
cerned— indeed,  he  frequently  gave  concerts  for  the 
benefit  of  the  poor,  remembering  the  time  when  he  had 
been  a  poor  man  himself. 

Paris,  always  eager  for  novelty,  the  self-elected  critic 
of  the  civilized  world  in  all  matters  appertaining  to  art, 
was  by  this  time  imperative  in  her  demand  to  see  and 
hear  Paganini  ;  so,  early  in  the  spring  of  1831,  he  set 
out  for  that  fashionable  capital.  Fame  had  preceded 
him  with  every  kind  of  strange  rumor — he  could  not 
only  play  on  one  string,  it  was  said,  but  his  fiddle  still 
gave  forth  strange  music  when  all  the  strings  were  re- 
moved. The  old  calumnies  revived.  The  town  was 
placarded  with  villainous  wood-cuts  of  him  in  prison. 
Others  represented  him  in  caricature,  playing  on  one 
string.  In  short,  expectation  was  wound  up  to  its  high- 
est pitch,  when  he  suddenly  arrived,  in  bad  health,  and 
immediately  gave  a  performance  at  the  Opera-House,  on 
March  9th,  1831.  The  calm  and  judicious  veteran  of 
the  Royal  Conservatory  of  Music  in  Belgium,  M.  Fetis, 
who  knew  him  well,  and  heard  him  often,  and  to  whose 
work  I  am  so  much  indebted  for  the  present  sketch,  can 
find  no  other  words  to  express  the  sensation  which  he 
created  on  his  first  appearance  at  Paris  than  ' '  uni  versal 
frenzy."  The  whole  city  flocked  to  hear  him,  the  pro- 
fessors and  virtuosi  crowded  round  him  on  the  platform, 
as  near  as  they  dared  approach,  in  order  to  watch  him 
play,  after  which  they  were  no  wiser  than  before.  At 
the  end  of  each  piece  the  whole  audience,  it  is  said,  rose 


PAGANINI    IN    LOXDOX.  137 

en  masse  to  recall  him  ;  the  tongue  of  envy  forgot  to 
wag,  and  rivalry  was  put  out  of  court.  It  was  hoped 
that  he  might  have  thrown  some  light  upon  certain  pro- 
digious violin  studies  which  he  had  published,  and  which 
had  long  been  known  at  Paris.  No  one  could  play 
them,  or  even  conjecture  how  some  of  them  were  to  be 
played  ;  nor  did  Paganini  reveal  the  secret,  which  lay, 
no  doubt,  partly  in  a  peculiar  way  of  tuning  the  instru- 
ment, as  well  as  in  a  length  and  agility  of  finger  which 
he  alone  possessed. 

About  the  middle  of  May  he  left  Paris  for  London, 
and  the  Times  newspaper,  which,  at  that  time,  hardly 
ever  noticed  concerts,  devoted  half  a  column  in  a  vain 
attempt  to  give  some  idea  of  his  first  performance  at  the 
King's  Theatre.  Paganini,  to  save  himself  trouble,  had 
agreed,  for  an  enormous  sum  of  money,  to  let  himself  to 
a  speculator  during  his  stay  in  England,  who  made  all 
arrangements  for  him  and  took  the  proceeds.  This  plan 
has  since  been  adopted  by  several  illustrious  artists,  M. 
Joachim  among  them  ;  and,  although  it  has  been  stig- 
matized as  wanting  in  dignity,  it  is  probably,  on  the 
whole,  the  most  satisfactory  to  the  artist,  though,  not 
always  to  the  public.  An  attempt  was  made  to  double 
the  prices  at  the  Opera-House,  which  raised  great  indig- 
nation ;  the  prices  ultimately  charged  were  the  usual 
Opera  charges — no  more  and  no  less — and  this  was 
doubtless  thought  exorbitant  for  a  concert,  although  the 
solo  performer  was  supported  by  an  orchestra  and  some 
of  the  best  Opera  singers,  the  famous  Lablache  among 
them.  The  crowd  at  the  doors  on  the  first  night  was 
excessive,  and  the  pit  was  full  to  overflowing,  but  the 
boxes  were  thin.  Paganini  was  suffering  at  that  time 
from  the  inroads  of  his  old  complaint,  aggravated  by  the 
rapid  encroachments  of  his  last  fatal  malady,  consump- 


138  MY    MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

tion.  He  appeared  contrary  to  the  advice  of  his  physi- 
cians, and  was  received  with  the  usual  tumult  of  ap- 
plause. From  a  heap  of  contemporary  criticism  strug- 
gling vainly  with  the  difficulty  of  the  subject,  we  ex- 
tract a  few  passages  from  the  pen  of  an  eye-witness, 
which  strikes  us  as  unusually  graphic. 

Mr.   Gardner,  of  Leicester,  writes  :  "  At  the  hazard 
of  my  ribs,  I  placed  myself  at  the  Opera  two  hours  and 

a  half  before  the  concert  began The  concert 

opened  with  Beethoven's  second  symphony,  admirably 
played  by  the  Philharmonic  band,  after  which  Lablache 
sang  '  Largo  al  Factotum,'  with  much  applause,  and 
was  encored.  A  breathless  silence,  and  every  eye  was 
watching  the  action  of  this  extraordinary  violinist  ;  and 
as  he  glided  from  the  side  scenes  to  the  front  of  the 
stage,  an  involuntary  cheering  burst  from  every  part  of 
the  house,  many  rising  from  their  seats  to  view  the 
Spectre  during  the  thunder  of  this  unprecedented  cheer- 
ing— his  gaunt  and  extraordinary  appearance  being  more 
like  that  of  a  devotee  about  to  suffer  martyrdom  than 
one  to  delight  you  with  his  art.  With  the  tip  of  his 
bow  he  sent  off  the  orchestra  in  a  grand  military  move- 
ment with  a  force  and  vivacity  as  surprising  as  it  was 
new.  At  the  termination  of  this  introduction  he  com- 
menced with  a  soft  streaming  note  of  celestial  quality, 
and  with  three  or  four  whips  of  his  bow  elicited  points 
of  sound  that  mounted  to  the  third  heaven  and  as  bright 

as  the  stars He  has  long  legs  and  arms,   and 

his  hands  in  his  playing  often  assume  the  attitude  of 
prayer,  with  the  fingers  pointed  upward.  It  was  curious 
to  watch  the  faces  of  Lindley,  Dragonetti,  and  the  other 
great  players,  who  took  up  places  on  the  platform  to 
command  a  good  view  of  him  during  his  performance  ; 
they  all  seem  to  have  agreed  that  the  like  had  never 


SPECIALTIES.  139 

been  licard  before,  and  that  in  addition  to  liis  marvellous 
eccentricities  and  novel  effects,  lie  had  transcended  the 
highest  level  of  legitimate  art  that  had  ever  been 
reached." 

It  has  often  been  asked  in  what  respects  Paganini's 
playing  differed  from  that  of  other  great  violinists — in 
what  has  he  enriched  the  art — what  has  he  discovered  or 
invented  ?  These  questions  have  been  to  some  extent 
answered  by  the  painstaking  Professor  of  Music,  Guhr, 
who  had  many  opportunities  of  watching  him  closely. 

He  was  peculiar,  first,  in  his  manner  of  tuning. 
Sometimes  the  first  three  strings  were  tuned  half  a  note 
higher,  the  G  string  being  a  third  lower.  Sometimes  he 
tuned  his  G  to  B  ;  with  a  single  turn  of  his  peg  lie 
would  change  the  pitch  of  his  G  string,  and  never  fail  in 
his  intonation.  These  artifices  explain,  no  doubt,  many 
of  his  extraordinary  intervals. 

Secondly,  in  his  management  of  the  bow  he  has  had 
many  imitators,  though  none  have  approached  him  in  the 
romantic  variety  and  "  fiend-like  power  with  which  he 
ruled  over  the  strings. "  His  ordinary  staccato,  played 
with  a  very  tight  bow,  was  prodigiously  loud  and  firm, 
like  the  strokes  of  a  hammer,  while  his  method  of  dash- 
ing the  bow  on  the  strings,  and  letting  it  leap  through 
an  infinity  of  tiny  staccato  notes  with  unerring  precision 
was  wholly  his  own  invention. 

Thirdly,  his  tremolo  use  of  the  left  hand  exceeded 
anything  which  had  been  attempted  up  to  that  time. 
This  effect  has  been,  like  every  other  one  of  his  inimita- 
ble effects,  driven  to  death  by  subsequent  violinists. 

Fourth,  his  use  of  harmonics,  now  universally  known 
to  violinists,  was  then  absolutely  new.  Formerly  only  the 
open  harmonics  had  been  used,  and  that  very  charily  ; 
but  Paganini  astonished  the  world  by  stopping  the  string 


140  MY   MUSICAL   MEMOIUES. 

with  the  first  finger,  and  extracting  the  harmonic  simul- 
taneously with  the  fourth.  By  sliding  up  the  first  finger 
together  with  the  fourth,  he  played  entire  melodies  in 
harmonics,  and  got,  on  an  average,  about  three  octaves 
out  of  each  string  ;  his  use  of  double  harmonics  in  rapid 
passages,  and  such  trifles  as  four  simultaneous  A  flats, 
are  still  problems  which  few  if  any  hands  but  his  have 
been  able  to  solve. 

Lastly,  his  habit  of  plucking  the  strings,  sometimes 
with  the  right,  sometimes  with  the  left  hand,  and  pro- 
ducing those  rapid  pizzicato  runs,  on  an  accompaniment 
of  a  harp  or  guitar,  was  absolutely  new  ;  beyond  these 
things  it  was  found  impossible  much  farther  to  analyze 
his  playing.  His  secret,  if  he  had  any,  died  with  him  ; 
his  music  does  not  reveal  it.  Although  he  wrote  quar- 
tets, solos,  duets,  and  sonatas,  fragments  of  about 
twenty-four  of  which  are  in  existence,  only  nine  were 
found  complete  ;  of  these  the  Rondo  known  as  "  Clo- 
chette,"  and  often  played  by  M.  Sivori,  and  "La 
Streghe,"  arc  perhaps  the  best  known.  The  celebrated 
variations  on  the  "  Carnival  de  Yenise"  do  not  appear 
to  have  been  published  as  he  played  them,  though  both 
Ernst  and  Sivori  claim  to  play  the  Paganini  Carnival. 
M.  Fetis  considers  his  finest  compositions  have  not  been 
preserved — among  those  he  reckons  a  magnificent  con- 
certo played  at  Paris  in  1813,  and  a  grand  military 
sonata  for  the  fourth  string  only. 

The  rest  of  Paganini' s  story  is  soon  told.  Broken  in 
health,  after  an  absence  of  six  years,  he  returned  to 
Italy,  where  he  was  now  nearly  worshipped  by  his 
countrymen.  He  had  grown  immensely  rich,  and 
bought  various  properties  in  Tuscany.  He  played  at 
concerts  from  time  to  time,  and  was  always  most  gener- 
ous in  giving  his  talents  for  the  benefit  of  the  poor. 


THE   XIGHT   COMETH.  141 

Mr.  Dubourg,  in  his  valuable  work  on  the  violin,  as- 
serts that  he  went  to  America  ;  but  of  this  I  can  find  no 
trace  in  the  biography  of  M.  Fetis,  nor  in  any  other  docu- 
ments which  I  have  as  yet  come  across.  In  1835  Paga- 
nini  lived  much  between  Milan  and  Genoa.  The  Duch- 
ess of  Parma  had  conferred  the  Order  of  St.  George  on 
him  in  1834. 

In  1836  he  got  into  bad  hands.  He  lent  his  great 
name  to  the  establishment  of  a  Casino  in  Paris,  which 
failed.  He  was  obliged  to  go  to  Paris,  and  the  journey, 
no  doubt,  hastened  his  end.  His  consumption  grew 
worse  ;  he  could  not  bear  the  cold  ;  he  was  annoyed  by 
the  unscrupulous  speculators,  who  tried  to  involve  him 
in  their  own  ruin,  and  then  refused  to  bear  the  burden 
with  him.  They  even  succeeded  in  mulcting  him  in  the 
sum  of  50,000  francs,  and  he  was  actually  detained  by 
legal  proceedings  until  he  had  paid  the  whole  sum. 

But  his  days  of  speculation  and  glory  were  alike  num- 
bered. In  1839  he  was  a  dying  man.  lie  struggled 
with  indomitable  energy  against  his  deadly  foe.  He 
now  often  took  up  the  guitar,  which,  in  the  spring-time 
of  his  life,  had  been  so  intimately  associated  with  his 
first  romantic  attachment.  He  was  a  great  admirer  of 
Beethoven,  and  not  long  before  his  death  he  played  one 
of  that  master's  quartets,  his  favorite  one,  with  aston- 
ishing energy.  In  extreme  weakness,  he  labored  out 
to  hear  a  requiem  of  Cherubini  for  male  voices,  and  soon 
afterward,  with  all  his  last  energies,  he  insisted  upon 
being  conveyed  to  one  of  the  churches  in  Marseilles, 
where  he  took  part  in  a  solemn  mass  of  Beethoven.  His 
voice  was  now  nearly  extinct,  and  his  sleep,  the  greatest 
of  consolations,  was  broken  up  by  dreadful  fits  of  cough- 
ing ;  his  features  began  to  sink,  and  he  appeared  to  be 
little  more  than  a  living  skeleton,  EO  excessive  and  fear- 


142  MY   MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

fill  was  liis  emaciation.  Still  lie  did  not  believe  in  tlio 
approach  of  death.  Day  by  day  lie  grew  more  restless, 
and  talked  of  passing  the  winter  at  jSTice  ;  and  he  did 
live  on  till  the  spring. 

On  the  night  of  May  -27th,  1840,  after  a  protracted 
paroxysm,  he  suddenly  became  strangely  tranquil.  He 
sank  into  a  quiet  sleep,  and  woke  refreshed  and  calm. 
The  air  was  soft  and  warm.  He  desired  them  to  open 
the  windows  wide,  draw  the  curtains  of  his  bed,  and  al- 
low the  moon,  just  rising  in  the  unclouded  glory  of  an 
Italian  sky,  to  flood  his  apartment.  He  sat  gazing  in- 
tently upon  it  for  some  minutes,  and  then  again  sank 
drowsily  into  a  fitful  sleep.  Rousing  himself  once  more, 
his  fine  ear  caught  the  sound  of  the  rustling  leaves  as 
they  were  gently  stirred  by  some  breath  of  air  outside. 
In  his  dying  moments  this  sound  of  the  night  wind  in 
the  trees  seemed  to  affect  him  strangely,  and  the  summer 
nights  on  the  banks  of  the  Arno  long  ago  may  have  flashed 
back  upon  his  mind,  and  called  up  fading  memories. 
But  now  the  Arno  was  exchanged  for  the  wide  Mediter- 
ranean Sea,  all  ablaze  with  light.  Mozart  in  his  last 
moments  pointed  to  the  score  of  the  Requiem,  which 
lay  before  him  on  his  bed,  and  his  lips  were  moving,  to 
indicate  the  effect  of  kettledrums  in  a  particular  place, 
as  he  sank  back  in  a  swoon  ;  and  it  is  recorded  of  Paga- 
nini  that  on  that  fair  moonlight  night  in  May,  as  the 
last  dimness  came  over  his  eyes,  he  stretched  out  his 
hand  to  grasp  his  faithful  friend  and  companion,  his 
Guarnerius  violin,  and  as  he  struck  its  chords  once  more, 
and  found  that  it  ceased  to  speak  with  its  old  magic 
power,  he  himself  sank  back  and  expired,  like  one 
broken-hearted  to  find  that  a  little  feeble,  confused  noise 
was  all  that  was  now  left  of  those  strains  that  he  had 
created  and  the  world  had  worshipped. 


OVER  THE    DEAD.  143 

He  left  £80,000  to  his  son,  Baron  Acliille  Paganini, 
and  about  £45  a  year  to  Antonia  Bianchi,  with  whom 
he  had  long  since  quarrelled.  He  had  previously  pro- 
vided for  his  mother.  His  violin  he  left  to  his  native 
city,  Genoa,  with  directions  that  no  other  artist  should 
ever  play  upon  it. 

"VVe  have  no  heart  to  dwell  upon  the  wretched  strife 
over  his  dead  body.  Paganini,  who  had  no  great  opin- 
ion of  the  Catholic  religion  or  the  Catholic  priests,  died 
without  confession  and  the  last  sacraments.  He  was, 
accordingly,  refused  burial  in  consecrated  ground  by  the 
Bishop  of  Parma.  For  a  long  time  his  corpse  remained 
at  a  room  in  the  hospital  at  ]^ice.  The  body  then  lay 
for  four  years  at  Villa  Franca,  when,  owing,  it  was 
affirmed,  to  the  ghostly  violin  sounds  that  were  heard 
about  the  coffin,  his  son,  by  paying  large  sums  of  money, 
got  permission  to  bury  his  father  with  funeral  rites  in 
the  village  church  near  what  had  been  his  favorite  resi- 
dence, the  Villa  Gajona.  This  last  tribute  was  tardily 
paid  to  the  ashes  of  the  immortal  musician  in  May  of 
1845. 


CHAPTER  Y. 

WAGNEK. 

4 

WAGNER  is  the  most  powerful  personality  that  has  ap- 
peared in  the  world  of  music  since  Beethoven.  But  in- 
deed he  seems  to  me,  in  his  wide  range  as  poet,  drama- 
tist, musician,  and  philosopher,  almost  alone  in  the  his- 
tory of  Art. 

Beethoven  was  a  musician  only.  His  glory  is  to  have 
carried  the  art  of  music  to  its  extreme  limits  of  develop- 
ment ;  no  one  has  yet  gone  beyond  him. 

Wagner  said,  "  I  have  invented  nothing."  You  can- 
not invent  metre  after  the  Greeks,  or  the  modern  drama 
after  Shakespeare,  or  coloring  and  perspective  after  the 
Italians  :  there  is  a  point  at  which  an  art  ceases  to  grow 
and  stands  full-blown  like  a  flower. 

Most  people  admit  that  in  music,  as  in  other  arts,  that 
point  has  been  reached.  What  then  remained  ?  This, 
'  according  to  Richard  Wagner  :  to  concentrate  into  one 
dazzling  focus  all  the  arts,  and,  having  sounded  and  de- 
veloped the  expressional  depth,  and  determined  the 
peculiar  function  of  each,  to  combine  them  at  length  into 
one  perfect  and  indivisible  whole. 

Words  seem  childishly  inadequate  to  render  all  at  once 
such  a  conception  as  this.  Slowly  we  may  master  some 
of  its  details  and  allow  them  to  orb  into  a  perfect  whole. 
If  you  stand  at  the  foot  of  one  of  the  Alps,  you  can  see 
but  a  little  portion  of  it — a  hamlet,  a  sloping  patch  of 
vineyard,  and  a  pine  copse  beyond  ;  but  as  you  ascend 


WAGNER   THE    BOY.  145 

the  winding  patli  the  prospect  opens  to  right  and  left ; 
cascades  leap  by  to  lose  themselves  in  the  torrent  below  ; 
you  plunge  into  the  gloom  of  a  forest  and  emerge  on 
to  the  higher  meadows  and  pleasant  scenes  of  pastoral 
life  ;  yonder  the  soil  grows  rocky,  and  tumbled  boulders 
lie  around  you  ;  the  cloud  lifts,  and  a  vista  of  mountains 
and  valleys  is  suddenly  opened  up,  and  pressing  forward 
you  leave  far  below  the  murmurs  of  one  world,  and 
raise  your  enraptured  eyes  to  the  black  eagle,  as  he 
wheels  aloft  in  the  golden  air  beyond  the  stainless  and 
eternal  snows. 

So  when  we  are  brought  face  to  face  with  such  a  va- 
ried, complex,  and  immense  intelligence  as  that  of  Rich- 
ard Wagner  we  are  apt  to  dwell  on  a  part — a  peculiarity 
of  the  music — a  turn  of  the  drama — a  melody,  a  situa- 
tion, an  eccentricity.  But  the  secret  lies,  after  all,  in 
the  unity  of  effect.  Close  your  eyes  after  a  day  in  the 
Alps,  and,  as  the  visions  pass  before  you,  all  will  grow 
clear  to  your  inner  consciousness,  and  the  varied  scenes 
you  have  realized  only  in  succession  will  at  last  arrange 
themselves  into  one  great  and  majestic  whole. ") 

"Perhaps  ho  has  some  talent  for  music,"  said  the 
sick  man,  as  he  heard  little  Richard,  then  only  seven 
years  old,  strumming  a  tune  from  Der  Freyschutz  on 
the  piano.  It  was  Louis  Geyer,  his  step-father — 
painter,  author,  and  actor — then  on  his  death-bed,  think- 
ing of  the  future,  planning  as  dying  men  plan,  and  hit- 
ting the  mark  as  they  often  hit  it,  quite  at  random. 
The  child's  vivid  temperament  and  eager,  sensitive 
mind  had  always  made  him  a  favorite  with  the  actor  and 
the  poet,  and  he  thought  of  making  a  painter  of  Rich- 
ard, but  the  boy  seemed  to  have  no  turn  for  it.  His 
mother,  a  woman  full  of  life  and  imagination,  was  less 
anxious  and  more  \visc.  She  let  him  grow,  and  happily 


146  MY   MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

lie  was  left  to  her,  "  with  no  education,"  as  he  says, 
0  but  life,  art,  and  myself." 

Indeed  any  attempt  to  hasten  "Wagner's  development, 
or  to  fix  his  career,  would  doubtless  have  failed.  From 
the  first,  the  consciousness  of  his  own  force  has  been  one 
of  his  strangest  and  strongest  peculiarities.  At  times  it 
seems  to  have  almost  intoxicated  him — at  others  it  sus- 
tained and  cheered  him  in  utter  loneliness  ;  it  has  dom- 
inated all  who  have  come  in  personal  contact  with  him, 
and  bent  the  minds  and  wills  of  the  rebellious  like  reeds 
before  the  wind. 

And  the  reason  is  evident.  AYagner  was  always  pro- 
digious in  his  ability.  Like  those  very  fast  trotters  that 
flash  along  the  highways  of  England  and  America,  he  has 
been  in  the  habit  of  passing  every  one  on  the  road,  and 
passing  them  easily.  But  the  consciousness  of  power 
bred  in  him  a  singular  wilfulness.  At  school  he  could 
learn  anything,  but  he  would  learn  only  as  he  chose  and 
what  he  chose.  When  his  time  came  he  mastered,  with 
incredible  rapidity  and  accuracy,  Greek,  Latin,  mythol- 
ogy, and  ancient  history.  As  for  his  music-master,  ho 
soon  sent  him  to  the  right-about,  telling  him  he  would 
learn  music  in  his  own  way.  Indeed  the  variety  of  in- 
fluences, and  the  rapidity  with  which  he  absorbed  them, 
one  after  the  other,  quite  unfitted  him  for  going  into 
harness  early  in  any  one  direction. 

At  the  age  of  seventeen  he  had  dipped  into  most  lit- 
eratures, ancient  and  modern,  glanced  at  science,  learned 
English  in  order  to  read  Shakespeare,  weighed  several 
schools  of  philosophy,  studied  and  dismissed  the  con- 
tending theologies,  absorbed  Schiller  and  worshipped 
Goethe  (then  eighty-four  years  old),  turned  away  from  the 
conventional  stage  of  Kotzebue  and  Inland,  tasted  poli- 
tic?, nnd  been  deeply  stirred  by  the  music  of  Beethoven. 


EXPRESSION.  147 

There  was  doubtless  a  great  indistinctness  about  his 
aims  at  this  time.  To  live,  to  grow,  to  feel,  to  be  filled 
with  new  emotions,  and  to  sound  his  enormous  capacities 
for  receiving  impressions  and  acquiring  facts — this  had 
hitherto  been  enough  ;  but  the  vexed  question  was  in- 
evitable :  to  what  end  ? 

The  artistic  temperament  could  give  but  one  answer 
to  that — "  Expression  !'?  Creation  itself — man,  the 
world,  the  universe,  is  nothing  but  that.  There  is  ever 
this  imperious  divine  necessity  for  outward  expression. 
This  is  the  lesson  of  the  ages  and  of  the  universe,  of 
which  we  see  but  a  little  speck  realized  upon  our  tiny 
and  overcrowded  planet.  But  this  burning  thought 
turns  the  mind  of  man  itself  into  a  divine  microcosm — • 
he,  too,  begins  to  obey  in  his  higher  activities  what  ho 
perceives  to  be  the  supreme  law  of  the  divine  life.  He, 
too,  must  flash  into  self-consciousness,  and  breathe  in 
form,  until  all  that  slept  in  the  silence  of  his  heart 
comes  forth  swift  and  radiant  with  the  wind  and  lire 
of  emotion,  and  stands  at  last  like  an  angel,  full  of 
wreathed  melodies  and  crowned  with  stars. 

Such  to  the  artist  soul  is  the  beloved  parable  of  earth. 
The  life  within  must  become  outward  ;  all  that  we  are 
is  dying  to  be  born — is  craving  to  realize  itself,  to  know, 
to  possess,  to  adore  ! 

It  is  quite  obvious  that  life  is  here  seized,  not  from 
the  intellectual,  but  from  the  emotional  side.  The  in- 
tellect is  used  to  fathom,  to  formulate,  to  economize, 
and  represent,  in  their  most  impressive  forms,  the  feel- 
ings which  would  otherwise  be  wasted  and  misspent  ; 
but  the  intellect,  which  has  played  so  important  a  part 
in  Wagner's  system,  is  always  the  second,  never  the  first 
factor,  and  its  function  has  been  to  analyze  the  various 
expressional  media  of  the  past  and  present,  and  to  create 


148  MY   MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

some  form  or  combination  more  exhaustive  and  power- 
ful than  all  the  rest. 

"Wagner  was  willing  to  be  led  ;  but  he  could  not  help 
feeling  that  an  artist  now  is  the  heir  of  all  the  ages,  that 
now  for  the  first  time  he  can  stand  and  gauge  the  crea- 
tions of  the  past  in  poetry,  painting,  drama,  and  music, 
and  ask  himself,  how  far,  through  these,  has  the  inner 
world  of  the  mind  found  utterance.  "Wagner  had  the  un- 
conscious but  inflexible  hardihood  to  take  up  each  art  in 
turn,  weigh  it,  and  find  it  wanting.  Each  fell  short  of 
the  whole  reality  in  some  respect.  Painting  leaves  out 
motion  and  solidarity,  sculpture  possesses  solidarity 
without  motion,  and  usually  without  color.  Poetry 
without  drama  appeals  to  the  senses  chiefly  through  the 
imagination  ;  in  itself  it  has  neither  sound,  color,  nor 
solidarity.  The  spoken  drama  lacks  the  intensity  which 
it  is  the  unique  function  of  musical  sound  to  give  ; 
while  mere  pantomime,  whether  of  dance  or  drama, 
lacks  the  indefinite  power  of  sound  as  well  as  the  defi- 
nite suggestion  of  words  ;  and,  lastly,  musical  sound 
alone  provokes  the  eternal  "  why  ?"  which  can  only  be 
answered  by  associating  the  emotion  raised  with  thought, 
for  music  is  without  solidarity,  color,  or  thought,  while 
possessing  motion  and  sound  in  the  highest  perfection. 

It  will  be  said,  "Yes,  but  each  art  is  complete  in  it- 
self." True,  but  not  complete  as  a  means  of  expressing 
thought  and  feeling.  You  urge,  "  But  the  power  of  art 
lies  often  in  its  suggest! vcncss.  I  read  a  poem  and  shut 
my  eyes,  and  the  vision  is  more  splendid  than  anything 
that  could  be  presented  outwardly."  Yes,  indirectly, 
because  you  have  imagination  ;  the  vision  was  beautiful, 
but  its  quality  depended  on  you,  not  on  the  art.  Art  is 
for  expression,  and  that  art  is  best  which  expresses  most. 
Do  not  confuse  the  effects  of  imagination  and  association 


INDIVIDUALISM   OF   SHAKESPEARE.  149 

with  the  effects  of  art.  A  barrel-organ  or  a  daub  may 
serve  to  set  a-going  imagination  and  memory,  but  art 
has  to  do  with  expression,  and  is  defective  qua  art  just 
where  it  begins  to  make  these  demands  upon  imagination 
and  memory. 

Those  who  have  traced  Wagner's  career  from  boyhood 
know  how  patiently  he  has  questioned  every  art,  how 
passionately  he  has  surrendered  himself  to  it,  for  a 
time  ;  how  willing  he  would  have  been  to  rest ;  how  in- 
exorably experience  and  feeling  have  urged  him  on 
until,  like  the  hardy  navigators  of  old,  he  broke  at  last 
into  a  new  and  undiscovered  ocean.  At  the  age  of 
eleven  he  had  read  Shakespeare.  Surely  dramatic  ex- 
pression of  thought  and  feeling  could  go  no  farther. 
But  he  would  test  it  as  a  form  of  art  by  experiment, 
and  see  how  it  worked.  He  immediately  constructed  a 
drama,  horrible  and  thorough — a  cross  between  Hamlet 
and  King  Lear.  Forty-two  characters  suffered  death  in 
the  first  four  acts,  so  that  in  the  fifth,  in  order  to  people 
his  stage  at  all,  most  of  them  had  to  reappear  as  ghosts. 
The  Shakespearian  method  was  closely  adhered  to,  and 
for  several  years  he  continued  to  brood  over  it  lovingly. 

Here  was  a  form  intensely  individual,  self-conscious 
— in  which  man  explored  the  depths  of  his  own  nature. 
On  that  rough  wooden  stage  of  the  Globe  Theatre  so 
vivid  were  the  characters,  so  rapid  and  complex  the  feel- 
ings, so  perfect  and  expressive  the  pantomime,  that  the 
want  of  stage  trappings  and  accessories  was  hardly  felt. 
Still,  it  was  a  restrained  expression  ;  it  was  too  mosaic  ; 
the  individuals  lacked  an  universal  element  in  which  to 
live  and  move  and  have  their  being  ;  we  sit  fascinated 
and  bewildered  with  the  subtle  analysis  and  changing 
episodes  ;  but  the  characters  do  not  run  up  into  univer- 
sal types,  they  are  too  entirely  absorbed  by  their  own 


150  MY   MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

thoughts  and  feelings.  The  contest  here  is  not  with, 
Fate  and  Time,  as  on  the  Greek  stage,  but  with  Self 
and  Society. 

Excited,  but  oppressed,  by  the  complex  inner  life  of 
the  Shakespearian  drama,  Wagner  still  felt  the  need  of 
wedding  the  personal  life  to  some  larger  ideal  types,  and 
intensifying  the  emotional  element  by  the  introduction 
of  musical  sound.  Then  the  cramped  wooden  stage  of 
the  Globe  Theatre  vanished,  and  in  its  place  rose  the 
marble  amphitheatre,  open  to  the  sky,  embedded  in  the 
southern  slope  of  the  Athenian  Acropolis.  In  the  clas- 
sical drama  nothing  was  individual — the  whole  life  of 
Greece  was  there,  but  all  was  summed  up  in  large  and 
simple  types.  The  actors  speak  through  fixed  masks. 
All  fine  inflection  is  lost — all  change  of  facial  expression 
sacrificed  to  massive  groupings  and  stately  poses,  regu- 
lated by  the  shrill  pipe  and  the  meagre  harp.  But  still 
there  is  in  the  dramas  of  ^Eschylus,  Euripides,  and 
Sophocles  a  breadth  of  expression  which  enables  the  soul 
to  shake  itself  free  from  its  accidental  surroundings  and 
enter  into  general  sympathy  with  the  wider  life  of 
humanity.  It  is  this  escape  into  the  ideal  which  the 
modern  self-conscious  spirit  most  needs  ;  this  merging 
of  discordant  self  in  the  universal  harmony  which  drew 
"Wagner  toward  the  theatre  of  the  Greeks.  There  we 
start  from  the  gods,  the  ideal  representatives  of  human 
thought  and  emotion.  Zeus  is  in  Agamemnon,  Ares  in 
Achilles,  Artemis  in  Iphigenia,  Aphrodite  in  Phaedra  ; 
and  there  is  something  prophetic  and  sublime  in  the 
spontaneous  growth  of  these  types  beneath  the  human 
touch,  until  they  transcend  the  gods  and  conquer  Olym- 
pus itself.  Cassandra  is  greater  than  the  gods  in  her 
consciousness  of  injustice  ;  Prometheus  is  sublime  in 
his  god-like  defiance  of  fate  ;  Antigone  triumphs 


THE   SOUL    OF   THE    GREEK    DRAMA.  151 

through  voluntary  sacrifice.  It  is  the  inexorable  progress 
of  the  human  conscience  toward  a  higher  Olympus,  a 
purer  deity  ;  men  come  from  gods,  but  excel  the  gods. 
Then  follows  the  inevitable  decline,  "  the  dusk  of  the 
gods,"  and,  lastly,  the  assertion  of  man's  divinity  and 
the  rehabilitation  through  man  of  the  divine  idea. 

This  thought  Christianity  should  eternally  present  ; 
but  as  its  votaries  unhappily  trampled  upon  one  half  of 
human  life,  and  caricatured  the  other  all  through  the 
Middle  Ages,  the  Renaissance  insisted  upon  reviving  the 
types  of  Greek  beauty  and  force,  in  order  to  restore  the 
balance  and  reassert  the  place  and  dignity  of  the  down- 
trodden senses.  That  protest,  in  the  teeth  of  our  mod- 
ern religious  narrowness,  will  continue  to  be  popular 
until  the  reconciliation  between  the  old  and  the  new 
world-spirit  is  reached  in  a  higher,  freer  life,  recogniz- 
ing and  making  room  for  the  development  in  due  bal- 
ance of  every  part  of  human  nature.  The  Greek  view 
of  life  may  not  be  adequate,  but  it  had  elements  which 
we  want  ;  and  to  study  Art  we  must  still  go  to  Athens. 
Within  his  limits  the  Greek  remains  our  supreme  stand- 
ard. 

For  what  the  Greek  was,  and  for  what  he  saw,  his  theatre 
found  an  almost  perfect  art-form.  The  dance  or  science 
of  pantomimic  motion  was  part  of  his  daily  education. 
His  body  was  trained  in  the  Palaestra,  or  gymnasium, 
and  his  life  was  one  of  constant  drill  to  enable  him  to 
take  part  in  the  games  and  national  festivals.  The  elas- 
tic tongue  of  Homer  had  been  enriched  and  fired  by  a 
hundred  poets  before  the  full  development  of  the  Greek 
drama,  and  hymns  and  songs,  set  to  rhythmic  and  choral 
melodies  of  every  character  and  variety,  supplied  him 
with  ready  emotional  utterance  upon  all  occasions.  Add 
to  this  the  profound  enthusiasm  which  still  accompanied 


152  MY    MUSICAL    MEMORIES. 

the  ancient  rites,  the  Delphic  oracles  and  the  Eleusinian 
mysteries,  and  we  have  all  the  materials  which  were 
woven  into  one  harmonious  whole  by  ^Eschylus — poet, 
warrior,  stage  manager,  and  religious  devotee. 

The  soul  of  the  Greek  drama,  freed  from  accidental 
associations,  must  now  be  melted  down  in  the  new  cruci- 
ble. 

Wagner  found  there  an  intense  earnestness  of  purpose 
— the  devout  portrayal  of  a  few  fundamental  types — the 
large  clear  outline  like  the  frieze  of  the  Parthenon — a 
simple  plot  and  well-developed  phases  of  feeling  as  pro- 
nounced and  trenchant  as  the  rhythmic  motions  of  the 
dramatis  person®  /  and  lastly  he  found — what  he  found 
not  in  Shakespeare — the  Greek  chorus.  This  gave  its 
binding  intensity  to  the  whole  drama — this  provided  the 
universal  element  in  which  the  actors  lived  and  moved 
and  had  their  being.  The  chorus  ever  in  motion — a 
band  of  youth  or  maidens,  priests  or  supernatural  beings, 
fluid  and  expressive,  like  the  emotions  of  the  vast  and 
earnest  assembly — the  chorus  bore  aloft  a  wail  over  the 
agonies  of  Philoctetes,  a  plaint  for  Iphigenia,  a  ques- 
tioning of  the  gods  for  Cassandra  ;  it  enveloped  the 
stage  with  floods  of  passionate  declamation  ;  it  rushed,  it 
pointed,  it  swayed,  it  sighed  and  whispered  in  broken 
pathetic  accents  ;  it  was  like  the  sobbing  of  the  sea  on 
a  rocky  strand — the  sound  of  the  waves  in  Ionian  caves 
— the  wild  sweep  of  the  tempest  answering  back  man's 
passionate  plaint,  and  fitting  the  simple  feelings  of  the 
great  types  on  the  stage  with  an  almost  elemental  inten- 
sity of  expression.  The  mysterious  variety  of  Greek 
metres,  the  varied  spasmodic  rhythms,  can  only  be  under- 
stood when  the  vision  of  the  Greek  chorus  rises  before 
us  in  its  eager  bursts  of  appropriate  but  fitful  activity. 
That  changing  chant,  that  harsh  ringing  progression  of 


UNION"   OF   THE   ARTS.  153 

notes  on  the  Greek  scales  of  which  Gregorians  are  still 
the  Christian  relics — we  should  not  call  it  music,  it  was 
not  melody,  much  less  harmony  ;  but  it  was  sound  inflex- 
ions marvellously  used  to  drill  declamation,  posture,  and 
pantomime.  The  soul  of  it  has  transmigrated  in  these 
latter  days — it  has  become  the  "Wagnerian  orchestra. 

Turn  back  now,  for  a  moment,  to  the  Shakespearian 
drama.  Chorus,  musical  sound,  band,  song,  all  the 
voices  of  universal  nature  environing  man — appalling, 
consoling,  inspiring  him — have  vanished.  A  new  inner- 
world,  unknown  to  the  Greeks,  has  taken  their  place, 
and  man  is  absorbed  with  himself.  Yet  without  that 
universal  voice  which  he  can  make  his  own,  how  he 
shrinks,  dwarfed  by  his  narrow  individuality  ;  no  longer 
a  part  of  the  great  whole  and  soul  of  things  ;  nature  no 
longer  his  mother,  the  winds  no  more  his  friends,  the  sea 
no  more  his  comforter  !  The  ideal  atmosphere  of  the 
Greek  chorus  is  missed  ;  the  power  of  music,  however 
rudimentary,  is  absent  ;  Shakespeare  seems  to  have  felt 
it  ;  it  passes  over  his  sublime  creations  as  an  invocation 
to  Music  in  T'toelfth  Night,  or  in  Ophelia's  plaintive 
song.  And  this  is  the  point  of  contact  between  the  old 
drama  of  yEschylus  and  the  new  drama  of  Shakespeare  ; 
the  two  stand  forever  for  the  opposite  poles  of  dramatic 
art — the  universal  type,  the  individual  life — and  both 
are  necessary.  The  individual  is  naturally  evolved  from 
the  universal,  but  once  evolved  and  developed  it  must 
be  restored  to  the  universal  and  be  glorified  by  it. 

At  this  crisis,  in  his  quest  after  a  perfect  art-form, 
Wagner  found  himself  confronted  with  Beethoven's 
music.  He  did  not  believe  that  drama  could  be  carried 
farther  than  ./Eschylus,  Sophocles,  and  Shakespeare,  or 
music  any  farther  than  Beethoven  ;  but  he  did  con- 
ceive the  project  of  leading  the  whole  stream  of  the 


154  MY   MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

Beethovenian  music  into  the  channels  of  Shakespearian 
drama.  The  Greek  chorus  might  have  been  adequate 
to  the  simple  types  of  Greek  tragedy  ;  but  modern  life, 
with  its  self-conscious  spirituality,  its  questions,  its 
doubts,  its  hopes,  and  its  immense  aspirations  —  this 
seemed  to  require  quite  a  new  element  of  expression. 
The  voice  of  this  inner  life  had  been  preparing  for  four 
hundred  years  ;  when  it  was  ready  it  turned  out  to  be 
no  inflexible  mask,  through  which  a  human  voice  might 
speak,  nor  even  a  mobile  chorus,  but  a  splendid  and 
complex  organ  of  expression,  fitted  so  closely  about  the 
soul  of  man  as  to  become  the  very  JEolian  harp  upon 
which  the  breath  of  his  life  could  freely  play. 

In  the  great  world-laboratory  of  Art,  Wagner  found 
already  all  that  he  required.  There  was,  as  he  re- 
marked, nothing  left  for  him  to  invent  ;  the  arts  of 
poetry,  music,  painting,  and  pantomime  had  been  ex- 
plored separately  and  perfected  ;  nay,  one  step  more  had 
been  made  —  the  arts  had  actually  been  combined  at 
different  times  in  different  ways.  Music  with  panto- 
mime and  poem  by  the  Greeks  ;  music  with  pantomime, 
drama,  painting,  and  every  conceivable  effect  of  stage 
scenery  and  costume,  as  in  modern  opera  ;  music  and 
words,  as  in  oratorio  or  the  cantata.  But  in  Greece  music 
was  wholly  undeveloped  as  an  art  ;  acting  had  never 
sounded  the  depths  of  individual  life  and  expression. 
The  Shakespearian  drama  left  out  music.  The  cantata 
and  oratorio  omitted  pantomime  and  painting  ;  while 
modern  opera  presented  a  meretricious  and  maimed 
combination  of  the  arts  resulting  from  a  radically  defect- 
ive form. 

"With  a  surprising  vigor  of  intellect,  "Wagner  has 
analyzed  the  situation,  and  explained  exactly  why  he 
felt  dissatisfied  with  the  best  operatic  efforts  of  the  past, 


ITALIAN    OPERA    ANALYZED.  155 

and  why  he  seeks  to  supersede  opera  with  the  "  musical 
drama." 

1  think  his  critical  results  may  be  briefly  summed  up 
thus  :  In  the  musical  drama,  poetry,  music,  scenery, 
and  acting  are  to  be  so  blended  as  that  each  shall  have  its 
own  appropriate  share,  and  no  more,  as  a  medium  of  ex- 
pression. The  acting  must  not  be  cramped  by  the 
music,  as  in  common  opera,  where  a  man  has  to  stand 
on  one  toe  till  he  has  done  his  roulade,  or  pauses  in  the 
dead  of  night  to  shout  out  a  song  about  "  Hush  !  we 
shall  be  discovered  !"  when  there  is  not  a  moment  to 
spare.  The  music  must  not  be  spoiled  for  the  acting,  as 
in  ballet  and  pantomime,  where  acting  is  overstrained  to 
express  what  the  sister  arts  of  poetry  and  music  are 
better  fitted  to  convey.  And  poetry — which  after  all 
supplies  the  definite  basis  and  answers  the  inevitable 
"  why  ?" — must  not  be  sacrificed,  as  in  our  opera  libretti, 
to  the  demands  of  singers  for  aria  and  scena  ;  while  the 
scenery  must  only  attempt  effects  and  situations  which 
can  be  made  to  look  real.  The  object  of  the  grand 
musical  drama  is,  in  fact,  to  present  a  true  picture  of 
human  feeling  with  the  utmost  fulness  and  intensity, 
freed  from  every  conventional  expression  by  the  happy 
union  of  all  the  arts,  giving  to  each  only  what  it  is  able 
to  deal  with-— but  thus  dealing  with  everything,  leaving 
nothing  to  the  imagination.  The  "Wagnerian  drama 
completely  exhausts  the  situation. 

Filled  with  this  magnificent  conception,  "Wagner 
looked  out  upon  the  world  of  modern  opera — and  what 
did  he  see  ?  First,  he  noticed  that  the  opera  had  made 
a  false  start.  It  sprang,  not  from  the  earnest  feeling  of 
the  miracle  plays,  but  from  the  indolent  desire  of  the 
luxurious  Italian  nobles  to  listen  to  the  delicious  popu- 
lar melodies  in  a  refined  form.  The  spontaneous  street 


15G  MY    MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

action  (which  may  to  this  day  be  admired  in  ^Naples  or 
Florence)  was  exchanged  for  a  sort  of  drawing-room 
stage,  and  poets  were  hire'd  to  reset  the  Italian  melodies, 
as  Moore  reset  the  Irish  melodies,  for  ears  polite.  This 
new  aristocratic  mongrel  art  had  nothing  to  do  with  the 
real  drama.  Metastasio  himself  was  only  an  Italian  Mr. 
Chorley — the  very  humble  servant  of  everybody's  tunes  ; 
but  these  times  had  to  be  strung  together,  so  the  recita- 
tive, used  for  centuries  in  church,  was  borrowed  ;  then 
the  product  was  naturally  a  little  dull,  so  the  whole  had 
to  be  whipped  up  with  a  dance  ;  hence  the  ballet,  and 
there  you  have  the  three  fixed  points  of  the  opera — 
aria,  recitative,  and  ballet — which  to  this  day  determine 
the  form  of  modern  opera.  Thus  opera,  while  it  had 
no  connection  with  the  real  drama,  did  not  even  spring 
from  the  best  musical  elements.  "  From  the  prosperity 
of  opera  in  Italy,"  says  Wagner,  "the  art-student  will 

date  the  decline  of  music  in  that  country No 

one  who  has  any  conception  of  the  grandeur  and  in- 
effable depth  of  the  earlier  Italian  church  music — Pales- 
trina's  "  Stabat  Mater,"  for  instance — will  ever  dream 
of  maintaining  that  Italian  opera  can  be  looked  upon  as 
the  legitimate  daughter  of  that  wondrous  mother."* 

As  ear-tickling,  and  not  truth  of  expression,  was  the 
chief  thing,  and  as  there  was  nothing  much  to  be  ex- 
pressed, the  arias  became  wider  and  wider  of  the  words, 
and  at  last  the  words  became  mere  pegs,  and  the  music 
totally  irrelevant  —  as  who  should  dance  a  jig  over  a 
grave. 

Gluck's  reform  consisted  in  making  the  operatic 
tunes  once  more  true  to  the  words  ;  but  the  improve- 
ment touched  the  sentiment  only,  without  reaching  the 

*  Music  of  the  Pidure :  Letter  to  F.  Villot,  p.  10. 


GLUCK   AND   THE  INCORRIGIBLE   OPERA.  157 

defective  form.  In  France  the  form  was  slightly  re- 
deemed by  the  superior  libretti  and  more  elaborate  pan- 
tomime ;  while  in  Germany  opera  arrived  as  a  finished 
foreign  production,  and  Mozart  and  others  had  to  go  to 
Italy  to  learn  it.  "  In  expressing  my  highest  admira- 
tion of  the  exquisite  beauty  of  our  great  masters,"  says 
Wagner,  "  I  did  not  detract  from  their  fame  in  showing 
that  the  cause  of  their  weaknesses  lay  in  the  faultiness 
of  the  genre."*  And  the  defect  of  genre  lay  chiefly 
in  the  immolation  of  the  libretto  to  the  exigencies  of 
fixed  aria,  scena,  and  recitative.  The  drama,  which  has 
to  be  stretched  upon  that  Procrustean  bed,  must  neces- 
sarily become  disjointed  and  lifeless  in  the  process. 
Rossini  retarded  the  progress  of  the  musical  drama  for 
at  least  fifty  years  through  the  absolute  triumph  of 
melody,  in  the  most  fascinating  abundance,  over  the  re- 
sources of  the  orchestra  and  the  inspirations  of  the  poet. 
"  His  opera,"  writes  Edward  Dannreuther,  to  whose 
pamphlet  on  "Wagner  I  am  so  much  indebted,  "  is  like  a 
string  of  beads,  each  bead  being  a  glittering  and  intoxi- 
cating tune.  Dramatic  and  poetic  truth — all  that  makes 
a,  stage  performance  interesting — is  sacrificed  to  tunes. 
Poet  and  musician  alike  had  felt  this.  Goethe  and 
Schiller  both  found  the  operatic  form,  and  even  the  ex- 
isting stage,  so  uncongenial,  that  they  took  to  writing 
narrative  and  descriptive  plays  not  to  be  acted  at  all,  and 
have  been  followed  in  this  by  Byron,  Tennyson,  Brown- 
ing, and  Swinburne.  Beethoven  wrote  but  one  opera, 
Fiddio,  in  which  the  breadth  of  the  overture,  or  over- 
tures, seems  to  accuse  the  narrowness  of  the  dramatic 
form,  although  the  libretto  of  Fidelia  is  very  good,  as 
times  go.  Mendelssohn  and  Schumann  could  never  find 
a  suitable  libretto. 

*  Music  of  the  Future:  Letter  to  F.  Villot,  p.  22. 


158  MY   MUSICAL  MEMOIUES. 

The  conclusion  of  all  this  is  obvious.  The  perfect 
medium  which  was  to  combine  the  apparently  unmanage- 
able arts  was  yet  to  come,  and  Wagner  proposed  to  him- 
self the  task  of  harnessing  these  fiery  steeds  to  his 
triumphal  car,  and  driving  them  all  together.  He  must 
choose  his  own  subject,  with  a  simple  plot  and  a  few 
strong  passions  and  great  situations.  He  must  write  his 
own  drama,  which,  without  being  either  orthodox  verse 
or  fixed  metre,  would  aim  in  its  mobile  and  alliterative 
pathos  at  following  the  varied  inflexions  of  natural  feel- 
ing. He  must  arrange  his  own  scenery,  perfect  in  detail, 
and  within  the  limits  of  stage  possibility  ;  and  finally  he 
must  compose  his  own  music  and  drill  his  band,  chorus, 
and  characters. 

To  his  prophetic  vision  the  old  opera  form  of  aria, 
scena,  and  recitative  had  disappeared.  The  orchestra  in 
a  wondrous  fashion  floods  the  soul  with  an  emotion  ap- 
propriate to  the  situation.  The  drama  itself  advances 
unshackled  by  any  musical  exigency  ;  the  music  flows  on 
continuously,  not  imposing  a  form,  but  taking  its  form 
from  the  emotion  of  the  sentences  as  they  follow  each 
other.  Snatches  there  are  here  and  there  of  exquisite 
melody,  broken  up  by  part-singing,  with  a  wild  burst 
of  chorus  when  needful  to  fulfil  the  dramatic  occasion  ; 
but  never  must  action  be  delayed,  never  must  emotion 
be  belied,  never  truth  sacrificed  :  only  at  times,  when 
the  expressional  power  of  words  ceases,  the  music  will 
fulfil,  deepen,  combine,  and  sometimes  lift  the  drama 
almost  out  of  itself.  Then  the  spectator  is  raised  into  a 
sphere  of  ecstatic  contemplation  ;  the  pageantry  passes 
before  his  eyes  as  in  a  dream,  while  his  soul  lives  and 
moves  only  in  the  ideal  sphere  of  the  varied  and  intense 
passions  which  arc  being  played  out  before  him. 

"While  these  perceptions  and  aims  were  slowly  matur- 


WAGNER'S  MASTEKS.  159 

ing  in  him,  "Wagner  found  himself  constantly  at  war 
with  his  age  and  his  surroundings.  At  sixteen,  he  had  ' 
resolved  to  devote  himself  to  music,  finding  in  it  the 
ineffable  expression  for  emotions  otherwise  mainly  inex- 
pressible. Musical  notes  and  intervals  were  to  him  ra- 
diant forms  and  flaming  ministers.  Mozart  taught  him 

o  o 

that  exquisite  certainty  of  touch  which  selects  exactly 
the  right  notes  to  express  a  given  musical  idea.  Weber 
taught  him  the  secret  of  pure  melody,  how  to  stamp 
with  an  indelible  type  a  given  character,  as  in  the  return 
of  the  Samiel  motive  in  Der  freyschutz  •  he  also  per- 
ceived in  that  opera  the  superiority  of  legend  and  popu- 
lar myth,  as  on  the  Greek  stage,  to  present  the  univer- 
sal and  eternal  aspects  of  human  life  in  their  most  pro- 
nounced and  ideal  forms.  Beethoven  supplied  him 
with  the  mighty  orchestra,  capable  of  holding  in  suspen- 
sion an  immense  crowd  of  emotions,  and  of  manipulat- 
ing the  interior  and  complex  feelings  with  the  instanta- 
neous and  infallible  power  of  a  magician's  wand.  Schu- 
bert taught  him  the  freedom  of  song  ;  Chopin  the  magic 
elasticity  of  chords  ;  Spohr  the  subtle  properties  of  the 
chromatic  scale  ;  and  ev^en  Meyerbeer  revealed  to  him 
the  possibility  of  stage  effect  through  the  Grand  Opera. 
Shakespeare,  Goethe,  and  Schiller  suggested  the  kind  of 
language  in  which  such  dramas  as  Lohengrin  and  RJiein-  ^ 
gold  might  be  written  ;  while  Madame  Schroder  Devri- 
ent  revealed  to  him  what  a  woman  might  accomplish  in 
the  stage  presentation  of  ideal  passion  with  such  a  part 
as  Elsa  in  Lohengrin,  or  Briinnhilde  in  Walkure. 

But  the  immediate  result  of  this,  as  I  have  said,  was 
not  promising.  Contrary  to  the  advice  of  his  friends, 
he  had  thrown  himself,  heart  and  soul,  into  the  study  of 
music  as  a  profession.  Under  the  Cantor  Weinlig,  at 
Leipsic,  and  while  at  the  University,  he  produced  an 


1GO  MY   MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

overture  and  symphony,  which-  were  played,  and  not  un- 
favorably received,  at  the  Gewandhaus  ;  but  his  early 
work,  with  here  and  there  an  exceptional  trait  in  har- 
mony, was  nothing  but  a  pale  copy  of  Mozart. 

His  health  now  broke  down.  He  was  twenty  years 
old  (1833),  and  he  went  to  his  brother,  a  professor  of 
music  at  Wurzburg,  where  he  stayed  a  year,  at  the  end 
of  which  time  he  was  appointed  musical  director  at  the 
Magdeburg  theatre,  where,  under  the  combined  influ- 
ence of  Weber  and  Beethoven,  he  produced  two  operas 
— The  Fairies  and  The  Novice  of  Palermo — neither  of 
which  succeeded.  He  left  his  place  in  disgust,  and  ob- 
tained another  post  at  the  Konigsberg  theatre.  There 
he  married  an  actress — a  good  creature,  who,  without 
being  much  to  blame,  does  not  seem  to  have  materially 
increased  his  happiness,  but  who  decidedly  shared  the 
opinion  of  his  friends  that  the  composition  of  "  pot- 
boilers "  was  superior  to  the  pursuit  of  the  Ideal.  The 
Ideal,  however,  haunted  Wagner,  and — Poverty. 

In  1836  he  left  with  Mina  for  Riga  on  the  shores  of 
the  Baltic,  and  there,  as  chef  d"  orchestre  at  the  theatre, 
he  really  appears  to  have  enjoyed  studying  the  operas  of 
Mehul,  Spontini,  Auber  ;  for,  while  suffering  what  he 
describes  as  a  dull,  gnawing  pain  at  the  frequent  irrele- 
vance of  the  sentiment  to  the  music,  the  nobler  corre- 
spondences and  beautiful  inspirations  gave  him  far-off 
glimpses  of  that  musical  drama  to  which  he  even  now 
dimly  aspired. 

In  the  midst  of  his  routine  duties  Buhver's  novel, 
Jiienzi,  struck  his  imagination.  There,  as  on  a  large  and 
classic  stage,  was  portrayed  that  eternal  revolt  of  the 
human  spirit  against  tyranny,  routine,  selfishness,  and 
corruption,  of  which  the  Polish  insurrection  of  1831  and 
the  Revolution  of  July  were  the  modern  echoes. 


RIENZI.  101 

Rienzi,  a  tribune  of  the  people,  dreaming  of  tlie  old 
austere  Republic,  in  the  midst  of  corrupt  Papal  Rome — 
a  noble  heart,  a  powerful  will  at  war  with  a  brutal  and 
vulgar  age,  supported,  cheered  by  the  enthusiasm  of  a 
devoted  and  patriotic  sister,  raised  by  a  wave  of  popu- 
larity to  the  highest  summit  of  human  power,  then 
hurled  down  by  the  Papal  anathema,  betrayed  by  a 
mean  and  cowering  aristocracy,  banished  by  the  mob 
that  had  so  lately  hailed  him  as  a  deliverer,  and  at  last 
falling  by  a  treacherous  hand  upon  the  charred  and 
crumbling  ashes  of  his  own  homestead,  the  last  great 
tribune  of  Rome  ! — here  was  a  subject  with  immense 
outlines,  full  of  situations  in  which  the  greatest  breadth 
might  be  joined  to  the  most  detailed  inflexions  of  feel- 
ing. In  it  "Wagner,  while  not  departing  avowedly  from 
the  form  of  the  grand  opera  then  in  vogue  at  Paris,  has 
in  fact  burst  the  boundaries.  Rienzi  is  already  the 
work  of  an  independent  master — it  is,  at  least,  prophetic 
of  Lohengrin  and  Tristan,  while  comparing  favorably 
in  pure  melody  and  sensational  effects  with  any  of  the 
current  operas.  What  rush,  triumph,  aspiration  about 
the  large  outlines  and  tramping  measures  of  the  overture 
— what  elan  and  rugged  dignity  in  the  choruses — what 
elevation  in  Rienzi's  prayer,  "  God  of  Light  !" — what 
fervor  and  inexhaustible  faith  in  the  phrase,  "  Thou  hast 
placed  me  as  a  pilot  on  a  treacherous  and  rocky  strand  " 
— what  imagery,  as  of  vast  buildings  and  ranged  towers 
dimly  seen  athwart  the  dull  red  dawn,  in  the  music  of 
"  Scatter  the  night  that  reigns  above  this  city,"  and 
what  chastened  exaltation,  free  from  all  Italian  flourish 
or  ornament,  of  "  Rise,  thou  blessed  sun,  and  bring 
with  thee  resplendent  liberty  !'' 

But  in  1830,  which  saw  the  text  and  the  completion 
of  the  first  two  acts,  we  are  far  indeed  from  the  produc- 


162  MY   MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

tion  of  JRiensi  •  it  struck,  however,  the  key -note  of  a 
most  important  and  little-understood  phase  in  Wagner's 
career — the  political  phase. 

Musicians,  poets,  and  artists  are  not,  as  a  rule,  politi- 
cians. Their  world  is  the  inner  world — the  world  of 
emotion  and  thought,  which  belongs  to  no  special  age  or 
clime,  but  is  eternal  and  universal.  Goethe  and  Beetho- 
ven cared  little  for  revolutions,  and  have  even  been 
deemed  wanting  in  patriotism.  But  Wagner  was  a  hot 
politician.  He  was  at  one  time  a  mob  orator,  and  was 
seduced  by  his  illustrious  friend  Rockel,  who  was  after- 
ward put  in  prison,  to  throw  himself  at  Dresden  into  the 
rise  of  Saxony  arid  the  agitations  of  1848.  He  was  pro- 
scribed and  banished  from  German  soil,  and  years  after- 
ward, when  he  had,  if  not  recanted,  at  all  events  acqui- 
esced in  things  as  they  were,  he  was  obliged  to  fly  from 
Munich,  warned  by  the  friendly  king  that  his  life  was  in 
danger.  The  title  of  but  one  of  his  numerous  semi-polit- 
ical pamphlets,  "  Art  and  the  Revolution,"  gives  us  the 
real  clue  to  all  this.  People  have  accused  Wagner  of 
time-serving  and  change  in  politics  ;  but  the  fact  was 
that  he  favored  social  revolution  because  he  thought  it 
needful  to  art  revolution.  Conventionality  and  stagna- 
tion in  art  seemed  to  him  the  natural  outcome  of  con- 
ventionality and  stagnation  in  society  ;  the  world  must 
be  recalled  to  feeling  and  reality  before  art  could  again 
become  the  ideal  life  of  the  people,  as  it  was  once  in 
Greece.  But  when,  through  royal  patronage  later  on, 
all  impediment  to  the  free  development  of  his  art-work 
disappeared,  his  revolutionary  tendencies  also  disap- 
peared. He  too  was,  first  and  foremost,  Artist,  and 
he  came  to  realize  his  vocation,  which  had  to  do  with 
Art  and  with  "the  Revolution  "  only  in  so  far  as  it 
affected  "Art." 


THE    ROMANTIC   MOVEMENT.  1G3 

But,  in  fact,  no  ardent  soul  could  escape  the  romantic 
and  revolutionary  contagion  that  swept  over  France, 
Germany,  and  even  England,  between  1830  and  1850. 
Europe  seemed  to  breathe  freely  once  more  after  the 
iron  hand  of  ^Napoleon  I.  had  been  lifted  from  her  op- 
pressed bosom — but  then,  like  a  wayward  child,  she 
burst  into  all  kinds  of  excesses. 

The  atheism  of  the  first  revolution,  the  brutality  of 
[Napoleon  Buonaparte's  administration,  the  dulness  of 
Louis  Philippe's,  the  revived  taste  for  Greek  art,  com- 
bined with  the  inflexible  dogmatism  of  the  Papal  creed 
— all  these  conspired  to  fill  the  ardent  youth  of  the 
period  with  a  deep  revolt  against  things  as  they  were. 
"With  this  came  a  settled  longing  for  a  return  of  some 
sort  to  nature  and  freedom,  and  a  vague  but  intense  as- 
piration toward  the  ideal  and  immaterial  world,  which 
in  other  times  might  have  taken  the  form  of  a  religious 
revolution,  but  in  1830  broke  out  in  what  has  been 
called  "  Romanticism  "  in  Art.  It  was  seen  in  the 
writings  of  Mazzini  and  the  mutterings  of  Italian  free- 
dom ;  in  the  insatiable  and  varied  developments  of 
Madame  Sand's  genius,  in  the  wild  and  pathetic  cries  of 
Alfred  de  Musset,  in  the  sentimentalism  of  Lamartine, 
in  the  vast  scorn  and  bitter  invective  of  Hugo,  in  the 
heart-broken  submission  of  Lacordaire,  and  in  the  de- 
spair of  De  Lammenais.  Byron,  Shelley,  and  Tennyson 
caught  both  the  most  earthly  and  the  most  heavenly 
echoes  of  the  romantic  movement  in  England  ;  while  its 
inner  life  and  genius  have  found,  after  all,  their  most 
subtle  expression  in  the  music  of  Beethoven,  Mendels- 
sohn, Schumann,  Berlioz,  Chopin,  Wagner,  Liszt,  and 
Rubinstein. 

<b  It  seems,  indeed,"  writes  Wagner,  in  one  of  those 
veins  of  flashing  perception  in  which  he  so  abounds, 


164  MY    MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

"  that  human  sentiment,  as  if  intensified  by  the  pressure 
of  conventional  civilization,  had  sought  an  outlet  for  as- 
serting itself  according  to  its  own  laws  of  expression. 
The  astounding  popularity  of  music  in  our  time  proves 
the  correctness  of  the  supposition  that  the  modern  de- 
velopment of  this  art  has  met  an  innate  desire  of  the 
human  spirit."* 

WagTier  had  left  Magdeburg  for  Riga,  but  he  soon 
came  to  the  end  of  his  tether  there.  A  stupid  little 
provincial  town  was  not  likely  to  become  then  what 
Wagner  has  made  Bayreuth  since — the  stage  for  turning 
upside  down  the  art-theories  of  the  civilized  world. 
Pushed  by  what  he  calls  "  despair,"  without  money  and 
without  friends,  but  with  that  settled  faith  in  himself 
which  has  made  him  independent  of  both  until  it  has 
won  both,  the  obscure  chef  d  orchestra  resolved  to  go 
to  Paris  and  storm  the  Grand  Opera,  then  at  the  feet  of 
Rossini  and  that  strange,  unscrupulous  bric-a-brac  com- 
poser, Meyerbeer  !  The  small  vessel  in  which  he  sailed 
was  blown  about  the  Baltic  for  three  weeks,  put  into 
many  desolate  coast-nooks,  arid  nearly  wrecked.  After 
many  hardships,  shared  with  the  rough  and  often  starv- 
ing crew,  the  lonely  musician  arrived  in  London  (1840), 
with  his  head  full  of  Paris  and  the  Grand  Opera,  and 
with  Rienzi  in  his  carpet-bag. 

While  here  he  playfully  seized  the  musical  motive  of 
the  English  people.  It  lay,  he  said,  in  the  five  consec- 
utive ascending  notes  (after  the  first  three)  of  "  Rule 
Britannia  ;"  there  was  expressed  the  whole  breadth  and 
downright  bluff  "  go "  of  the  British  nation.  He 
threw  "  Rule  Britannia"  into  an  overture,  and  sent  it  by 
post  to  Sir  George  Smart,  then  omnipotent  musical  pro- 
better  to  Villot,  p.  30. 


WAGNER   AND   MEYERBEER.  1G5 

fessor  in  London  ;  but  the  postage  being  insufficient, 
the  MS.  was  not  taken  in,  and  at  this  moment  is  prob- 
ably lying  in  some  dim  archive  of  the  Post-Office,  "  left 
till' called  for." 

Crossing  to  Dieppe,  he  met  the  crafty  and  clever 
Meyerbeer,  who  instantly  saw  the  man  he  had  to  deal 
with,  and  probably  conceived  in  a  moment  that  policy 
of  apparent  support  but  probable  intrigue  which  made 
him  throughout  life  Wagner's  pet  aversion. 

It  has  been  unwarrantably  asserted  that  Wagner  hated 
the  Jews  because  of  Meyerbeer  and  Mendelssohn,  and 
hated  Meyerbeer  and  Mendelssohn  because  they  were 
successful  ;  but  Wagner's  dearest  friends  have  been 
Jews  ;  he  only  objected  to  what  he  considered  the  low 
level  of  their  art  theories  ;  and  if  he  hated  Meyerbeer 
and  Mendelssohn — two  men  also  at  loggerheads,  by  the 
way — it  was  not  simply  because  they  had  the  ear  of 
Europe,  but  because  they  and  their  friends  kept  every 
one  else  out  of  the  field,  while  Meyerbeer  debased  musi- 
cal art  to  the  level  of  the  vulgarest  sensation,  and  Men- 
delssohn never  rose  in  Wagner's  opinion  above  the  plane 
of  a  drawing-room  prophet,  while  creating  an  elegant 
and  pseudo-classic  standard  of  excellence  to  which  every 
one  soon  learned  to  bow  down. 

In  this  opinion  I  shall  never  concur.  Mendelssohn 
has  been  to  me  as  much  a  revelator  of  the  beautiful  as 
Wagner  has  been  of  the  sublime.  Nothing  is  more 
painful  to  me  than  the  bitter  opposition  between  the 
friends  of  Mendelssohn  and  Wagner.  These  two  great 
spirits  were  probably  as  antipathetic  as  Moore  and 
Wordsworth  ;  but  although  Wagner  is  the  inexorable 
and  colossal  development  in  art  since  Beethoven,  Men- 
delssohn reigns  forever  in  a  sweet  wayside  temple  of 
his  own,  full  of  bright  dreams  and  visions,  incense  and 


166  MY    MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

ringing  songs.  And  partly  is  he  so  sweet  because,  un- 
burthened  with  any  sense  of  a  message  to  utter,  a  mis- 
sion to  develop,  he  sings  like  a  child  in  the  valleys  of 
asphodel,  weaving  bright  chaplets  of  spring  flowers  for 
the  whole  world,  looking  upon  the  mystery  of  grief  and 
pain  with  wide  eyes  of  sympathy,  and  at  last  succumb- 
ing to  it  himself,  but  not  understanding  it,  with  a  song 
of  tender  surprise  upon  his  lips. 

Wagner  passed  two  terrible  years,  1840-42,  in  Paris. 
Meyerbeer  had  given  him  introductions,  and  introduced 
him  later  to  Mr.  Joly,  a  stage-director  at  Paris,  whom 
he  must  have  known  to  be  on  the  point  of  bankruptcy, 
and  who  suspended  the  rehearsal  of  the  No-vice  of  Pa- 
lermo at  the  last  moment.  But  this  was  but  the  end  of  a 
series  of  checks.  He  wrote  an  overture  to  Faust.  His 
good  friend  and  faithful  ally,  Schlesinger,  editor  of  the 
Gazette  Musicale,  got  it  rehearsed  at  the  Conserva- 
toire. It  sounded  quite  too  strange  and  bizarre  to  those 
ears  polite,  and  was  instantly  snuffed  out. 

He  submitted  a  libretto,  "  Love  Forbidden,"  to  a 
theatrical  manager,  but  it  had  no  chance,  and  dropped. 
Schlesinger  now  employed  him  to  write,  and  he 
wrote  articles  and  novels,  and  so  kept  body  and  soul 
together.  No  one  would  listen  to  his  music,  but  he 
was  not  a  bad  hack,  and  was  hired  for  a  few  francs  to 
arrange  Ilalevy's  "  Queen  of  Cyprus  "  for  the  piano, 
and  the  latest  tunes  of  Donizetti  and  Bellini  for  piano 
and  cornet  a  piston. 

At  night  he  stole  into  the  Grand  Opera,  and  there,  as 
he  tells  us,  felt  quite  certain  that  his  own  works  would 
one  day  supersede  the  popular  efforts  of  Rossini  and 
Meyerbeer.  He  does  not  seem  to  have  been  dejected 
like  a  lesser  soul  ;  in  what  the  French  called  his  immense 
orgueil,  he  was  sorry  for  their  want  of  appreciation,  but 


THE    FLYING    DUTCHMAN,    1841.  167 

never  dreamed  of  altering  his  ideas  to  suit  them.  "  Je 
me  flattais, "  says  the  unpaid  musical  hack,  "  d'imposer 
les  niiennes."  Meanwhile  the  splendid  band  of  the 
Conservatoire,  under  Habeneck,  consoled  him,  and  on 
the  Boulevards  he  often  met  and  chatted  with  Auber,  for 
whom  he  had  a  sincere  respect  and  admiration.  Auber 
was  at  least  a  conscientious  musician  of  genius,  who 
knew  his  business,  and  did  not  debase  what  was  at  no 
time  a  very  exalted  but  still  a  legitimate  branch  of  his 
art,  the  opera  comique  •  and,  besides,  Auber  was  a  Ion 
comarade,  and  liked  Wagner,  probably  without  under- 
standing him. 

After  months  of  drudgery,  and  chiefly  penny-a-lining 
for  the  Gazette  Musicale,  Wagner  felt  the  imperious 
necessity  for  a  return  to  his  own  art.  He  took  a  little 
cottage  outside  Paris,  hired  a  piano,  and  shut  himself 
up.  He  had  done  for  a  time,  at  least,  with  the  mean, 
frivolous,  coarse  world  of  Paris — he  did  not  miss  his 
friends,  he  did  not  mind  his  poverty.  He  was  again  on 
the  wild  Norwegian  coast,  beaten  about  with  storms, 
and  listening  to  the  weird  tales  of  mariners,  as  in  broken 
and  abrupt  utterances,  or  with  baled  breath,  they  con- 
fided to  him  the  legend  common  in  one  form  or  other  to 
seafaring  folk  in  all  parts  of  the  world — the  legend  of 
the  Flying  Dutchman.  The  tale  sprang  from  the  lives 
and  adventures  of  those  daring  navigators  of  the  fif- 
teenth and  sixteenth  centuries,  and  reflects  the  desperate 
struggle  with  the  elements,  the  insatiable  thirst  for  the 
discovery  of  new  lands  athwart  unknown  seas  ;  and  it 
seems  to  embody  forever  the  avenging  vision  of  men 
who,  resolved  to  win,  had  so  often  dared  and  lost  all. 
A  famous  captain,  mad  to  double  the  Cape  of  Storms, 
beaten  back  again  and  again,  at  length  swears  a  mighty 
oath  to  persevere  throughout  eternity.  The  devil  takes 


108  MY    MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

him  at  his  word.  The  captain  doubles  the  cape,  but  is 
doomed  to  roam  the  seas  forever  from  pole  to  pole — as 
the  Wandering  Jew  to  tread  the  earth — his  phantom 
vessel  the  terror  of  all  mariners,  and  the  dreadful  herald 
of  shipwreck.  Here  was  a  legend  which  needed  but  one 
inspired  touch  of  love  to  make  it  a  grand  epitome  of  sea- 
faring life,  with  its  hard  toils,  its  forlorn  hopes,  and  its 
tender  and  ineffably  sweet  respites.  The  accursed  doom 
of  the  Flying  Dutchman  can  be  lifted  by  human  love 
alone.  The  captain,  driven  by  an  irrepressible  longing 
for  rest,  may  land  once  in  seven  years,  and  if  he  can  find 
a  woman  who  will  promise  to  be  his  and  remain  faithful 
to  him  for  one  term  of  seven  years,  his  trial  will  be 
over — he.  will  be  saved. 

The  legend  thus  humanized  becomes  the  vehicle  for 
the  expression  of  those  intense  yet  simple  feelings  and 
situations  which  popular  myth,  according  to  Wagner, 
has  the  property  of  condensing  into  universal  types. 
Immense  unhappiness,  drawn  \>y  magnetic  attraction  to 
immense  love,  tried  by  heartrending  doubt  and  uncer- 
tainty, and  crowned  with  fidelity  and  triumphant  love, 
the  whole  embodied  in  a  clear,  simple  story,  summed 
up  in  a  few  situations  of  terrible  strength  and  inexorable 
truth — such  is  Wagner's  conception  of  the  drama  of 
the  Flying  Dutchman  with  its  "  damnation  "  motive 
belonging  to  the  captain,  and  its  "  salvation  "  motive 
given  to  the  bride — its  sailor's  subject — its  pilot's  song 
— its  spinning-wheel  home-melody — and  its  stormy 
"  TIo  !  e  ho  !"  chorus.  The  whole  drama  is  shadowed 
forth  in  the  magic  and  tempestuous  overture,  and  stands 
out  as  this  composer's  first  straightforward  desertion  of 
history  proper,  and  adoption  of  myth  as  the  special 
medium  of  the  new  musical  drama. 

Six  weeks  of  ceaseless  labor,  which  to  Wagner  were 


FIRST   SUCCESS.  169 

weeks  of  spontaneous  and  joyful  production,  sufficed  to 
complete  the  music  of  the  Flying  Dutchman.  The 
immediate  result  in  Paris  was  ludicrous.  The  music 
was  instantly  judged  to  be  absurd,  and  Wagner  was 
forced  to  sell  the  libretto,  which  was  handed  over  to  a 
Frenchman,  one  M.  P.  Fouche,  who  could  write  music. 
It  appeared,  with  that  gentleman's  approved  setting, 
under  the  title  of  Le  Vaisseau  Fantome. 

This  was  enough  !  No  lower  depth  could  well  be 
reached,  and  Wagner  was  preparing  to  leave  Paris  to 
the  tender  mercies  of  Rossini,  Meyerbeer,  and  M.  P. 
Fouche^  when  news  reached  him  from  Germany  that 
Rienzi,  flouted  in  the  capital  of  taste,  had  been  accepted 
in  Berlin  and  Dresden  ! 

It  was  the  spring  of  1842,  and  it  was  also  the  rapid 
and  wondrous  turn  of  the  tide  for  Wagner.  He  hurried 
to  Dresden,  to  find  the  rehearsals  of  Rienzl  already 
advanced.  The  opera  was  produced  with  that  singular 
burst  of  enthusiasm  which  greets  the  first  appreciation 
of  an  important  but  long-neglected  truth,  and  Wagner, 
having  become  the  favorite  of  the  Crown  Prince,  was 
elected  Kapellmeister  at  Dresden,  and  found  himself  for 
the  first  time  famous.  Some  might  now  have  rested  on 
their  laurels,  but  to  Wagner's  imperious  development 
Rienzi  was  already  a  thing  of  the  past.  He  had  drunk 
of  the  crystalline  waters  of  popular  myth,  and  was  still 
thirsty.  The  Flying  Dutchman  had  opened  up  a  new 
world  to  him,  more  real  because  more  exhaustive  of 
human  feelings  and  character  than  the  imperfect  types 
and  broken  episodes  of  real  history.  He  seemed  to 
stand  where  the  fresh  springs  of  inspiration  welled  up 
from  a  virgin  soil  ;  he  listened  to  the  child-like  voices  of 
primitive  peoples,  inspired  from  the  simple  heart  of 
Nature,  and  babbling  eternal  verities  without  knowing  it. 


170  MY    MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

Legend  was  the  rough  ore — the  plastic  element  he  could 
seize  and  remould,  as  ^Eschylus  remoulded  Prometheus, 
or  Sophocles  GEdipus,  adding  philosophic  analysis  and 
the  rich  adornments  of  poetic  fancy  and  artistic  form. 

The  legend  of  Tannhiiuser  now  engrossed  him.  The 
drama  was  soon  conceived  and  written.  There  he  sum- 
med up,  in  a  few  glowing  scenes,  the  opposition  between 
that  burst  of  free  sensuous  life  at  the  Renaissance,  and 
the  hard,  narrow  ideal  of  Papal  Christianity.  Christ 
not  only  crowned  with  thorns,  but  turned  into  stone,  is 
all  the  answer  which  that  Christianity  had  to  give  to  the 
stormy  impulse  which  at  last  poured  its  long  pent-up 
torrent  over  Europe.  The  deep  revolt  still  stares  us  in 
the  face  from  the  Italian  canvases,  as  we  look  at  the 
sensuous  figures  of  .Raphael  or  Titian — the  free  types  of 
fair  breathing  life,  surrounded  with  the  hard  aureole  of 
the  artificial  saint,  or  limned  as  in  mockery,  like  the 
dreams  of  a  pagan  world  upon  the  walls  of  the  Vatican. 

Tannhiiuser,  a  Thuringian  knight,  taking  refuge  with 
Yenus,  no  longer  the  beneficent  Holda,  joy  of  gods  and 
men,  but  turned  by  the  excesses  of  the  ascetic  spirit  into 
a  malign  witch,  and  banished  to  the  bowels  of  the  earth 
in  the  Yenusberg  ;  Tannlmuser,  with  a  touch  eternally 
true  to  nature,  bursting  the  fetters  of  an  unruly  sensual 
life,  and  sighing  for  a  healthier  activity  ;  Tannhiiuser 
seeing  for  a  moment  only,  in  the  pure  love  of  woman, 
the  reconciliation  of  the  senses  with  the  spirit,  a  recon- 
ciliation made  forever  impossible  by  the  stupid  bigotry  of 
a  false  form  of  religion,  but  which  is  ultimately  sealed  and 
accomplished  by  love  and  death  in  heaven — this  is  the 
human  and  sublime  parable  of  the  drama,  wrought  out 
with  the  fervor  of  a  religious  devotee,  and  epitomized  in 
that  prodigious  overture  wherein  the  dirge  of  the  Church 
mingles  with  the  free  and  impassioned  song  of  the  min- 


LOHENGRIN,    1347.  171 

strel  knight,  and  clashes  wildly  with  the  voluptuous 
echoes  of  the  fatal  Yenusberg. 

Wagner's  progress  was  now  checked  by  that  storm 
of  invective  which  burst  out  all  over  the  art  Avorld 
of  Germany — not  on  account  of  Rienzi,  but  in  conse- 
quence of  the  Flying  Dutchman,  and  especially  of 
Tannhduser.  The  reason  is  simple.  The  power  of 
Rienzi,  the  audacity  of  its  sentiment,  the  simplicity  of 
its  outline,  and  the  realism  of  its  mise  en  scene,  together 
with  a  general  respect  for  the  old  opera  forms,  insured  it 
a  hearing  which  resulted  in  a  legitimate  triumph.  But 
in  Tannhduser  the  new  path  was  already  struck  out, 
which  singers,  band,  audience,  critics,  and  composers,  in 
a  body,  refused  to  tread — in  short,  aria,  recitative,  and 
ballet  were  dethroned,  and  suddenly  found  themselves 
servants  where  they  had  been  masters. 

In  1843  the  Flying  Dutchman  was  produced  at  Dres- 
den, and  failed.  Rienzi  was  still  revived  with  success. 
"Wagner  now  sent  the  Dutchman  and  Tannhduser  to 
various  theatres.  The  former  was  tried  at  Berlin  in 
1844,  and  failed.  Spolir  had  the  intelligence  to  take  it 
up  at  Cassel,  and  wrote  a  friendly  and  appreciative  letter 
to  "Wagner  ;  but  the  MS.  scores  were,  as  a  rule,  returned 
by  the  other  theatres,  and  the  new  operas  seemed  to 
react  on  the  earlier  success,  for  at  Hamburg  Rienzi 
failed. 

Meanwhile,  failure,  together  with  the  close  sympathy 
of  a  few  devoted  friends,  convincing  him  that  he  was 
more  right  than  ever,  Wagner  now  threw  himself  into 
the  completion  of  that  work  which  is  perhaps  of  the 
whole  his  most  perfect,  as  it  certainly  is  his  most  popu- 
lar creation,  Lohengrin.  The  whole  of  Lohengrin  is  in 
the  prelude.  The  descent  of  the  Knight  of  the  Swan 
from  the  jasper  shrines  of  the  sacred  palace  of  Montsal- 


172  MY    MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

vat,  hidden  away  in  a  distant  forest  land — liis  holy  mis- 
sion to  rescue  Elsa  from  her  false  accusers — his  high  and 
chivalric  love — his  dignified  trouble  at  being  urged  by 
her  to  reveal  his  name,  that  insatiable  feminine  curiosity 
which  wrecks  the  whole—  the  darker  scenes  of  treachery 
by  which  Elsa  is  goaded  on  to  press  her  fatal  inquiry — 
the  magnificent  climax  of  the  first  act — the  sense  of 
weird  mystery  that  hangs  about  the  appearance  and  re- 
appearance of  the  swan,  and  the  final  departure  of  the 
glittering  Knight  of  the  Sangraal — allegory  of  heavenly 
devotion  stooping  to  lift  up  human  love  and  dashed 
with  earth's  bitterness  in  the  attempt  ; — to  those  who 
understand  the  pathos,  delicacy,  and  full  intensity  of 
the  Lohengrin  prelude,  this  and  more  will  become  as 
vivid  as  art  and  emotion  can  make  it.  Lohengrin  in  its 
elevation,  alike  in  its  pain,  its  sacrifice,  and  its  peace,  is 
the  necessary  reaction  from  that  wreck  of  sensual  pas- 
sion and  religious  despair  so  vividly  grasped  in  the  scenes 
of  the  Venusberg,  in  the  pilgrim  chant  and  the  wayside 
crucifix  of  Tannhauser. 

Lohengrin  was  finished  in  1847,  but  the  political 
events  of  the  next  few  years  brought  "Wagner's  career  in 
Germany  to  an  abrupt  conclusion.  His  growing  dis- 
satisfaction with  society  coincided,  unconsciously  no 
doubt,  with  the  failure  of  his  operas  after  that  first  dawn 
of  success.  He  now  devoted  himself  to  criticism  and 
politics.  He  read  Schopenhauer,  whose  pessimist  philos- 
ophy did  not  tend  to  soothe  his  perturbed  spirit ;  and 
during  the  next  ten  years,  from  1847  to  1857,  he  spoke 
to  the  world  from  different  places  of  exile  in  that  series 
of  political  and  aesthetical  pamphlets  to  which  I  have 
before  alluded. 

In  1855  the  Philharmonic  Society  invited  him  over  to 
London,  and  here  he  conducted  eight  concerts.  He  was 


LONDON,  1855.  173 

not  popular  ;  lie  was  surprised  to  find  that  the  band 
thought  it  unnecessary  to  rehearse,  and  the  band  was 
surprised  that  he  should  require  so  much  rehearsal.  But 
he  drove  the  band  in  spite  of  itself,  and  the  band  hated 
him.  They  said  he  murdered  Beethoven  with  his  baton, 
because  of  the  freedom  and  inspiration  of  his  readings. 
Mendelssohn's  Scotch  symphony  had  been  deliberately 
crushed — or  it  was  the  only  thing  that  went — according 
to  which  paper  you  happened  to  read.  He  did  not  care 
for  the  press,  and  he  was  not  much  surprised  that  the 
press  did  not  care  for  him.  The  unfailing  musical  intel- 
ligence of  the  Queen  and  Prince  Albert  was  the  one  ray 
of  sunlight  in  this  his  second  visit,  but  the  power  of  the 
man  could  not  be  hid,  even  from  his  enemies  ;  his  cult- 
ure astonished  the  half -educated  musicians  by  whom  he 
was  surrounded,  his  brilliant  originality  impressed  even 
his  own  friends,  who  saw  him  struggling  through  an  im- 
perfect acquaintance  with  French  and  English  to  make 
himself  understood.  One  evening,  alone  in  company 
with  M.  Sainton,  Hector  Berlioz,  and  Ferdinand 
Praeger,  Wagner  surprised  them  all  by  suddenly  launch- 
ing out  on  art,  music,  and  philosophy.  Berlioz  was  an 
elegant  speaker,  accustomed  to  lead  easily,  but  Wagner, 
with  his  torrent  of  broken  French  and  his  rush  of  molten 
ideas,  silenced,  bewildered,  delighted,  and  astonished 
them  all.  Berlioz  is  gone,  but  that  night  still  lives  in 
the  memory  of  those  who  were  present  who  survive,  and 
from  whose  lips  I  have  the  incident. 

Thus  Wagner  passed  through  England  for  a  second 
time,  leaving  behind  him  a  vague  impression  of  power 
and  eccentricity,  the  first  of  which  the  musical  press  did 
its  best  to  kill,  while  fanning  the  second  into  a  devouring 
flame  which  swallowed  up  Wagner's  reputation.  Not- 
withstanding the  exertions  of  a  few  devoted  believers, 


174  MY   MUSICAL   MEMOKIES. 

twenty- one  years  flitted  by,  and  little  enough  was  heard 
of  Richard  Wagner  in  England  until,  owing  to  the  in- 
creasing agitation  of  a  younger  school  of  musicians,  the 
Flying  Dutchman  was  at  last  indifferently  produced  at 
Covent  Garden. 

In  1874  Herr  Hans  von  Billow,  pupil  of  Liszt  and 
great  exponent  of  Wagner's  music,  came  over,  and  by 
his  wonderful  playing,  aided  steadily  by  the  periodical 
Wagnerian  and  Liszt  concerts  given  by  Messrs.  Dann- 
reuther  and  Bache,  at  which  Billow  conducted  Wag- 
ner's music,  brought  about  the  rise  of  the  new  Wagner 
movement  in  England,  which  received  its  development 
in  the  interest  occasioned  by  the  Bayreuth  Festival,  and 
reached  its  climax  in  the  Wagner  Festival  actively  pro- 
moted by  Herr  Wilhelnvj,  in  1877,  at  the  Albert  Hall. 

Mina,  Wagner's  h'rst  wife,  was  now  dead.  I  cannot 
here  tell  at  length  how  Liszt  (whose  daughter,  Cosima 
von  Billow,  became  Wagner's  second  wife  in  1870) 
labored  at  Weimar  with  untiring  zeal  to  produce  Wag- 
ner's works,  and  how  his  efforts  were  at  last  crowned 
with  success  all  over  Germany  in  1849-50.  It  was  a 
popular  triumph.  I  remember  old  Cipriani  Potter,  the 
friend  of  Beethoven,  saying  to  me  at  the  time  when  the 
English  papers  teemed  with  the  usual  twaddle  about 
Wagner's  music  being  intelligible  only  to  the  few,  "  It 
is  all  very  well  to  talk  this  stuff  here,  but  in  Germany  it 
is  the  people,  the  common  people,  who  crowd  to  the 
theatre  when  Tannkiiuser  arid  Lohengrin  are  given." 
I  have  noticed  the  same  at  the  Covent  Garden  concerts  ; 
it  was  always  the  pit  and  gallery  who  called  for  the 
Wagner  nights,  while  the  opera  which  had  the  great 
run  with  Carl  Rosa's  English  company  was  the  Flying 
Dutchman,  while  TarinJiauscr  and  Lohengrin  at  both 
houses  were  invariably  the  crowded  nights. 


THE   TETRALOGIE    MEISTER. — TRISTAN.  175 

In  18G1  the  Parisians  showed  their  taste  and  chic  by 
whistling  Tannhauser  off  the  stage. 

In  1863  Wagner  appeared  at  Vienna,  Prague,  Leip- 
sic,  St.  Petersburg,  Moscow,  Pesth,  and  conducted  con- 
certs with  brilliant  success.  In  1864  his  constant  friend, 
the  Crown  Prince,  now  Ludwig  II.  of  Bavaria,  sum- 
moned him  to  Munich,  where  the  new  operas  of  Tristan 
in  1865,  and  Meistersinger  in  1868,  Das  Rheingold  in 
1869,  and  Die  Walkiire  in  1870,  were  successively  given 
with  ever-increasing  appreciation  and  applause. 

The  Meistersinger,  through  which  there  runs  a 
strongly  comic  vein,  deals  with  the  contrast  between  the 
old  stiff  forms  of  minstrelsy  by  rule  and  the  spontaneous 
revolt  of  a  free,  musical,  and  poetical  genius,  and  the 
work  forms  a  humorous  and  almost  Shakespearian  pen- 
dant to  the  great  and  solemn  minstrelsy  which  fills  the 
centre  of  TannJiduser.  In  "Wagner's  opinion  it  is  the 
opera  most  likely  to  find  favor  with  an  English  audience, 
a  point  since  established  by  the  German  opera  perform- 
ances under  Richter. 

Tristan  and  Iseult,  in  which  the  drama  and  analysis 
of  passion — love  and  death — is  wrought  up  to  its  highest 
pitch,  was  thrown  off  between  the  first  two  and  last  two 
great  sections  of  the  Tetralogie,  and  the  Tetralogie,  it- 
self planned  twenty  years  ago  and  produced  at  Bayreuth 
in  1876,  seemed  the  last  most  daring  and  complete  mani- 
festation of  Wagner's  dramatic,  poetic,  and  musical 
genius,  until  Parsifal  revealed  still  greater  heights  and 
depths  in  1882. 

The  purpose  and  power  of  that  great  cycle  of  Scandi- 
navian  and  German  myths,  unrolled  in  the  four  colossal 
dramas  of  RJieingold,  Walkiire,  Siegfried,  and  Gotter- 
daminerung,  would  carry  me  far  beyond  the  limits  of  a 
biographical  chapter.  Both  the  Ring  and  the  Parsifal 


176  MY    MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

I  dwell  upon  at  some  length  in  my  account  of  the  per- 
formances at  Bayreuth  of  1876,  and  the  memorial  per- 
formances of  1883. 

I  will  now  give  a  sketch  of  the  general  impression  that 
Wagner  made  upon  me  and  upon  others  with  whom  he 
came  in  contact,  and  I  shall  conclude  these  biographical 
pages  with  a  notice  of  his  last  days  in  Yenice  and  his 
funeral  at  Bayreuth.  Wagner  offended  a  great  many 
people  in  the  course  of  his  life,  but  then  a  great  many 
people  offended  Wagner.  Those  who  hated  him  lied 
about  him  unscrupulously,  but  not  even  his  worst  ene- 
mies ever  accused  Wagner  of  lying  about  them.  He 
was  an  egotist  in  the  sense  that  he  believed  in  himself  ; 
but,  then,  one  must  remember  that,  in  his  own  estima- 
tion, for  more  than  forty  years,  Richard  Wagner  had 
been  the  greatest  figure  in  the  musical  world,  and  it  took 
quite  thirty  years  of  his  life  to  convince  the  world  of 
that  fact  which  now,  for  about  a  couple  of  years,  we 
have  had  proclaimed  by  all  the  newspapers  of  Europe. 
If  in  general  company  his  manner  was  reserved,  and 
even  a  little  acrid,  was  there  not  a  cause  ?  Such  a  man, 
with  an  immense  consciousness  of  power,  meeting  with 
marvellous  neglect,  and  trampled  upon,  but  never 
crushed,  by  penury,  misfortune,  and  the  bitterest  perse- 
cution and  ridicule,  naturally  becomes  an  egotist,  and  is 
apt  to  play  the  king  in  disguise,  and  behave,  even  in  the 
midst  of  insult,  as  if  he  expected  all  men  to  bow  down 
before  him  ;  and  then  as  naturally,  when  at  last  they 
do  bow  down  in  the  most  abject  of  attitudes,  he  feels  a 
little  inclined  to  kick  them. 

When  I  remember  that  about  forty  years  ago  Rienzi, 
and  the  Flying  Dutchman,  followed  by  Tannliauser  and 
Lohengrin,  were  finished,  that  the  master — then  truly 
of  the  future — was  patronized  here,  snubbed  there,  and 


WAGNER'S  EGOTISM.  17? 

supported  himself  by  arranging  tunes  for  the  cornet-a- 
piston  and  piano  ;  that  he  starved  a  little,  was  banished 
for  his  opinions,  nearly  shipwrecked,  and  altogether  un- 
able to  get  anybody  except  Ferdinand  Praeger,  Liszt 
(perhaps  M.  Sainton  and  half-a-dozen  intimes,  some  of 
them  as  unrecognized  as  himself)  to  believe  in  him  at 
all — why,  if  there  ever  was  a  training  for  egotism,  that 
was  !  In  fact,  for  nearly  half  a  century  there  was  no  /, 
one  to  believe  in  Richard  "Wagner  except  Richard  "Wag- 
ner. Then,  by  and  by,  the  crowned  heads,  and,  what 
was  more,  the  heads  of  opera-houses,  came  round,  and 
we  had  bowing  and  scraping  on  all  sides  ;  and  con- 
noisseurs arrived,  cap  in  hand,  to  interview  the  great 
man,  and  tell  him  to  his  face,  "  Richard  Wagner,  we 
deem  you  one  of  the  greatest  musicians  that  ever  lived." 
"  Bah  !"  says  "Wagner,  "  I  told  you  that  forty  years 
ago  ;  I  can  do  without  you  now  !"  "  Oh,  fie  !  what  a 
vain  man  !"  says  your  offended  aristocrat.  I  never 
thought  Richard  Wagner  vain.  I  knew  him  to  be  irri- 
table— so  are  other  people,  who  only  resemble  him  in 
that.  I  knew  him  to  be  impatient  of  interruption — so 
is  your  banking-clerk  when  stopped  in  the  middle  of  a 
column  of  figures.  I  knew  him  to  be  proud — so  are 
many  who  have  nothing  to  be  proud  of  ;  and  from 
the  first  moment  that  I  heard,  now  twenty  years  ago,  the 
prelude  to  Lohengrin,  and  read  a  few  of  his  letters  on 
art,  I  also  knew  Richard  Wagner  to  be  the  greatest  com- 
poser and  the  most  impressive  art-personality  then  in 
the  world. 

Wagner's  was  certainly  one  of  the  strongest  and  most 
independent  natures  I  ever  came  across.     The  ordinary 
motives  which  move  men  had  no  power  with  him.     He 
cared  neither  for  money  nor  for  rank,  nor  for  the  opin-  *" 
ions  of  his  contemporaries.     He  has  been  charged  with 


178  MY   MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

a  childish  love  of  display,  and  it  is  true  that  from  the 
simplest  and  most  retiring  life  he  would  suddenly  pass 
to  the  most  splendid  and  imposing  scale  of  living  ;  as 
when  on  one  occasion  he  entered  Heidelberg  in  a  car- 
riage drawn  by  four  horses  with  outriders.  He  was  fond 
of  beautiful  surroundings,  and  he  would  dress  expen- 
sively ;  but  in  these  peculiarities  any  one  who  understood 
Wagner  would  easily  see  that  his  excitable  and  artistic 
temperament  found  in  these  contrasts  and  accessories  the 
stimulus  most  favorable  to  his  ceaseless  and  buoyant  pro- 
ductivity, rather  than  the  mere  freaks  of  personal  van- 
ity. 

Although  the  most  intimate  friend  of  the  King  of 
Bavaria,  he  was  not  a  man  whom  princes  could  order 
about  or  control.  I  remember  very  well  his  refusing  to 
exhibit  himself  to  order  in  the  box  of  a  certain  high  per- 
sonage at  the  Albert  Hall  when  he  was  in  England, 
although  he  readily  availed  himself  of  the  privilege  of 
visiting  Her  Majesty  at  Windsor.  Wagner  never  forgot 
that  the  Queen  and  Prince  Albert  recognized  his  genius 
on  the  occasion  of  his  first  visit  to  England,  and  his  illus- 
trious patrons  were  then  in  a  very  small  minority. 

Wagner  was  adored  by  his  household.  He  lived  for 
some  time  at  Lucerne  in  great  retirement — he  was  then 
working  at  the  Ring.  A  friend  who  had  at  that  time 
frequent  access  to  him  has  given  us  some  charming 
Wagnerian  side-lights.  Nervous  and  intensely  impres- 
sionable, we  are  told  his  sentiments  always  ran  into  ex- 
tremes, but  his  self-recovery  was  rapid.  He  sometimes 
wounded  even  his  friends  by  the  intense  and  passionate 
sincerity  of  his  language  ;  but  he  atoned  so  sweetly  for 
a  passing  heat  of  temper,  that  they  loved  him  only  the 
more.  ' '  In  Wagner, ' '  said  one  of  his  orchestra  at 
Bayreuth,  "  it  is  the  second  movement  that  is  good." 


WAGNER'S  GENEROSITY.  179 

His  life  in  Switzerland  was  as  regular  as  it  was  labo- 
rious. He  rose  at  six — bathed — then  reclined  and  read 
till  ten — breakfasted — worked  uninterruptedly  from 
eleven  till  two — dined — rested,  always  with  a  book  in 
hand — drove  from  four  till  six — worked  from  six  till 
eight — supped,  and  spent  the  evening  in  the  midst  of  his 
family. 

It  was  in  these  evenings  that  Wagner  was  most  charm- 
ing. Every  cloud  was  cleared  from  his  brow  ;  his  face 
seemed  radiant  with  a  certain  light-hearted  goodness 
which  diffused  a  happy  atmosphere  around  him.  •  He  had 
a  kind  word  for  every  one,  he  entered  into  everything, 
and  his  conversation  scintillated  with  brilliancy  and 
humor.  His  boundless  liberality  sometimes  brought  him 
into  pecuniary  difficulties  ;  he  could  never  bear  to  see 
any  one  in  want  ;  he  had  known  too  much  of  it  himself. 

His  poor  relatives  took  advantage  of  him.  His  rustic 
family  connections  seemed  to  rise  out  of  the  earth 
wherever  he  stood,  and  claim  his  assistance  or  protection. 
They  would  come  on  a  visit  and  forget  to  leave  ;  they 
would  drop  in  at  meal-time  ;  they  would  use  his  name, 
order  things  of  his  trades-people  and  forget  to  pay 
travel  under  his  prestige^  and  lodge  at  his  expense. 

His  heart  was  larger  than  his  pocket — his  generosity 
far  exceeded  the  discretion  of  those  who  traded  upon  it. 
A  French  nobleman,  Count  Gobineau,  said  of  him, 
"  Herr  Wagner  will  never  be  perfectly  happy,  for  there 
will  always  be  some  one  at  his  elbow  whose  suffering  or 
distress  he  will  feel  bound  to  share."  As  a  rule  the 
French  spoke  no  good  of  Wagner  nor  Wagner  of  the 
French. 

I  once  spent  an  evening  in  Paris  at  Victor  Hugo's 
house.  It  was  not  long  after  the  Franco-Prussian  War. 
The  talk  ran  on  Wagner.  The  aged  poet  at  once  turned 


180  MY    MUSICAL   MEMOKIES. 

the  conversation.  Somewhat  rashly,  perhaps,  I  ventured 
to  say,  "  Surely  in  the  great  republic  of  art  national  or 
even  personal  antipathies  need  not  count."  Victor 
Hugo  cut  me  very  short.  ' '  Monsieur, ' '  he  said,  "  il  a 
dit  beaucoup  de  mal  de  mon  pays — il  a  insulte  la 
France.  I  cannot  hear  his  music." 

In  some  things  Wagner  was  as  simple  and  tender  as  a 
child — so  true  is  it  that  there  is  a  child-like  element  in 
most  men  of  genius.  His  agility  was  surprising  ;  he 
was  fond  of  climbing  the  trees  in  his  garden.  On  such 
occasions  Madame  Wagner  would  say  to  his  friends,  "  1 
beseech  you  do  not  look  at  him,  or  encourage  him  :  he 
will  only  run  greater  risks  !" 

\\Hien  he  was  up  early  he  would  go  round  to  the  other 
bedroom  doors  and  wake  the  sleepers  by  intoning  the 
Marseillaise  "  (he  was  a  shocking  red  republican,  this 
bosom  friend  of  the  king)  to  the  accompaniment  of  what 
has  been  called  the  "  devil's  tattoo." 

He  was  very  fond  of  animals,  especially  dogs  ;  his 
favorite  dog  "Mark"  is  buried  not  far  from  his  own 
grave.  The  Me'ister singer  was  arrested  for  months  in 
consequence  of  attentions  paid  to  a  poor  dog  he  had  met 
wandering  sick  and  masterless.  The  ungrateful  animal 
bit  his  hand,  and  for  months  Wagner  was  unable  to  hold 
a  pen  ;  but  the  dog  was  well  cared  for. 

Like  Liszt,  he  was  a  strong  opponent  of  vivisection, 
and  was  fond  of  quoting  Faust's  saying  to  scientific  doc- 
tors :  "  The  very  dogs  wouldn't  live  in  such  a  world  as 
yours  1" 

When  not  absolutely  absorbed  in  his  work,  he  was 
most  thoughtful  for  others,  and  was  always  planning  for 
their  comfort  and  happiness  ;  and,  although  quick  and 
at  times  irritable,  he  could  bear  suffering  calmly.  On 
one  occasion  a  lady  remarked  that  he  had  been  singu- 


TOUKOW3KI    AXD    WAGNER.  181 

larly  sweet  and  amiable  all  day  on  a  pleasure  excursion, 
at  a  time  when  lie  was  in  actual  physical  suffering  him- 
self. He  confessed  at  the  end  that  he  had  felt  very  un- 
well, but  had  tried  to  hide  this  from  those  about  him  for 
fear  of  spoiling  their  enjoyment. 

He  was  naturally  adored  by  his  servants,  who  stayed 
with  him  so  long  that  they  became  like  members  of  the 
family.  He  had  an  extraordinary  power  of  attracting 
people  to  his  person.  There  was- something  irresistibly 
magnetic  about  that  brilliant  eye,  that  noble,  penetrating 
look,  that  insatiable  and  unresting  vigor  of  emotion  and 
intellect. 

Liszt,  de  Billow,  Richter,  Wilhelmj,  and  all  his  staff 
of  artists,  were  absolutely  devoted  to  him,  and  gave  him 
years  of  willing  service  which  no  money  could  have  paid 
for  or  secured.  The  talented  painter,  Paul  Toukowski, 
left  his  atelier  at  Naples  to  come  and  live  at  Bayreuth 
and  paint  the  Parsifal  scenery  ;  and  what  scenery  it 
is  !  What  a  dream  of  summer-land  is  the  moor  and 
woodland  in  the  domain  of  Mori tsal vat  !  What  a 
majestic  and  gorgeous  hall,  of  more  than  Eastern  mag- 
nificence, is  that  in  which  the  mystery  of  the  Sangrail  is 
enacted  !  What  dim  forests,  what  enchanted  caves, 
what  massive  walls  and  battlements,  what  enchanted 
bowers,  what  more  than  tropical  bloom  and  foliage  !  It 
was  long  before  the  artist  could  satisfy  Wagner  with  that 
magic  garden.  The  master  would  have  the  flowers  as 
large  as  the  girls,  and  he  would  have  the  girls  exactly 
like  the  flowers.  It  was  difficult ;  but  it  is  enough  to 

O 

say  that  Wagner  willed  it,  and  it  was  done. 

His  influence  with  the  actors  was  supreme  ;  never 
would  they  have  attempted  for  another  what  they  did 
for  him.  The  Rhine  girls  were  terrified  at  the  cages  in 
which  they  had  to  be  swung  up  and  down  in  the  Rhine 


182  MY    MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

depths,  singing  all  the  time.  They  refused  at  first  to  face 
a  situation  which  appeared  more  fit  for  acrobats  than  for 
dramatic  artists.  They  would  not  get  into  their  cages  at 
all,  until  the  master,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  besought 
them  to  try,  and  then  all  went  easily,  and  more  than 
well. 

Madame  Titiens  had  scruples  at  first  about  the  Wag- 
nerian  parts  as  unsingable,  but  in  her  latter  days  she  was 
quite  "  fanatisee  "  about  the  part  of  Ortrud,  in  which 
she  was  superb,  and  she  used  to  declare  the  "Wagner's 
roles  gave  her  the  fullest  and  freest  scope  for  her  vocali- 
zation and  acting.  The  singer  Schnor,  who  was  identi- 
fied with  the  part  of  Tristran,  when  he  was  told  on  his 
death-bed  of  the  preparations  for  the  performance  of  the 
Niebelungen  Ring  at  Bayreuth,  exclaimed — it  was  his 
last  regret — "  Then,  after  all,  I  shall  never  ging  Sieg- 
fried." 

I  confess  I  came  fully  under  "Wagner's  spell — I  spent 
a  delightful  evening  at  his  house  in  1876.  It  was  at  the 
close  of  the  first  Bayreuth  festival.  All  the  corps 
dramatic  were  present — Richter,  the  conductor,  was  chat- 
ting with  Wilhelmj,  the  leader  of  the  orchestra,  when  I 
went  up  to  him  and  asked  him  whether  he  had  recruited 
his  strength  well  at  Nuremberg.  There  a  few  nights 
before  I  had  met  him  in  company  with  Professor  Ella, 
and  in  the  quiet  old  city  of  Albert  Diirer — whither  he 
had  escaped  for  a  rest  between  the  continued  perform- 
ances of  the  Ring — we  had  spent  an  evening  over  a  good 
bottle  of  Rhine  wine,  amid  the  fumes  of  those  detestable 
black  cheroots  which  Liszt  was  so  fond  of. 

Then  I  caught  sight  of  Walter  Bache,  who  introduced 
me  to  Liszt  ;  and  presently  Richter  took  me  up  and  pre- 
sented me  to  Wagner. 

His   face   beamed   with   kindness   and   geniality  ;  he 


AN"   EVENING    AT   WAGNER'S   HOUSE.  133 

spoke  French,  said  lie  had  been  in  England  long,  long 
ago,  and  would  perhaps  come  again.  He  had  great 
doubts  whether  the  English  were  sufficiently  serious  in 
art  ever  to  appreciate  his  Ring,  and  seemed  pleased  when 
I  told  him  of  the  great  popularity  of  his  music  at  the 
Promenade  Concerts,  and  the  increasing  appreciation  of 
Lohengrin  and  Tannhauser.  "Earlier  works,"  he 
said,  shrugging  his  shoulders. 

And  Materna,  the  unique  Briinnhilde,  was  there. 
"Wagner  had  taken  endless  trouble  in  forming  her  for 
the  Niebelungcn  Ring  and  the  great  part  she  was  to 
play  ;  and  master  and  pupil  always  entertained  the  live- 
liest ad  mi  ration  and  affection  for  each  other,  which  some- 
times took  an  amusing  and  demonstrative  form.  That 
night,  when  Briinnhilde,  an  immense  woman,  arrived  en 
yrande  toilette,  and  wearing  some  of  her  best  jewels,  she 
bore  directly  down  upon  Wagner — a  spare,  short,  fragile 
little  man.  Her  enormous  bulk  seemed  to  extinguish 
him  for  a  moment.  On  reaching  him  with  difficulty  in 
the  midst  of  the  glittering  crowd  she  embraced  him  rapt- 
urously— German  fashion — with  "  Ach,  Herr  Wag- 
ner !" 

Wagner  stood  it  like  a  man  ;  but  toward  the  close  of 
the  evening  I  beheld  the  Materna  bearing  down  upon 
him  again,  and  as  she  neared  him  he  held  up  both  his 
hands  energetically  repelling  a  second  attack,  "  Nein, 
nein,  Frau  Materna,  das  will  ich  gar  nicht,"  and  poor 
Briinnhilde  had  to  put  up  with  a  hand-shake  instead. 

I  saw  him  again  in  England — it  was  on  that  very 
evening  he  declined  to  go  with  me  to  be  presented  to  a 
Royal  Princess  at  the  house  of  a  well-known  nobleman. 
If  I  have  cause  to  regret  that  circumstance  I  have  also 
cause  to  remember  that  evening  with  some  satisfaction — 
not  only  did  I  hear  him  read  one  act  of  his  Parsifal, 


184  MY   MUSICAL    MEMORIES. 

but  I  received  from  him  a  singular  token  of  personal  re- 
gard. I  remember  Liszt  telling  me  with  some  pride 
how  he  had  received  the  celebrated  "  Kiss  of  Beetho- 
ven "  —Beethoven  was  not  in  the  habit,  it  seems,  of  em- 
bracing people.  I  now  recall  with  a  feeling  of  singular 
satisfaction  the  occasion  on  which  Wagner  favored  me  in 
the  same  way,  with  a  kiss. 

He  advanced  toward  me  as  I  suddenly  entered  the 
room,  with  "  Ach  mein  lieber  Ilerr  Haweis,  was  haben 
Sie  den  iiber  micli  schon  geschrieben  !"  and  so  saying, 
taking  me  by  both  elbows,  he  saluted  me  on  both 
cheeks  in  the  orthodox  manner. 

Wagner's  friendship  with  the  king  of  Bavaria  had  no 
doubt  contributed  largely  to  the  realization  of  all  his 
plans  during  his  own  lifetime.  The  notion  of  building 
a  special  theatre  where  the  orchestra  should  be  out  of 
sight — the  seats  arranged  tier  above  tier,  with  a  single 
row  of  boxes  and  a  gallery  above  them — had  been  long 
in  his  mind. 

The  king  was  anxious  for  the  theatre  to  be  in 
Munich  ;  but  the  opposition  of  the  court,  on  account  of 
Wagner's  political  opinions,  was  then  too  great.  Later 
on  the  hotel-keepeis  offered  to  build  a  theatre  there  on 
their  own  account,  and  to  carry  out  Wagner's  plans  free 
of  charge  as  a  speculation. 

Wagner  declined.  He  chose  Bayreuth.  He  was 
beholden  to  none  save  the  king  and  his  own  followers. 
They  had  stood  by  him,  rehearsed  his  fame,  produced  his 
works,  and  they  built  his  theatre  ;  but  every  detail  was 
directed  by  Wagner,  and  the  perfection  which  the  Bay- 
reuth performances  have  at  last  reached  is  due  to  the 
same  exhaustive  and  unremitting  personal  care. 

It  was  only  natural  that  the  master  should  yield  the 
baton  to  a  friend  like  Richter,  whose  experience,  phy- 


WAGNER'S  CONDUCTING.  185 

eique,  and  consummate  talent  would  enable  him  to  per- 
fect the  executive  part  of  the  work  ;  but  it  was  my  privi- 
lege in  England  to  see  Wagner  himself  conduct  some  of 
his  own  music  at  the  Albert  Hall.  Some  said  he  had 
already  lost  nerve  as  a  conductor,  and,  indeed,  had 
never  possessed  the  requisite  patience.  That  may  have 
been  to  some  extent  true,  but  it  did  not  strike  me.  I 
went  home  and  wrote  the  following  note,  which  I  see  no 
reason  to  alter  now  : 

"Wagner's  notion  is  evidently  not  to  rave,  but  to 
command,  and  to  deal  with  his  men  as  one  .who  gives 
them  credit  for  knowing  their  own  business,  instead  of 
treating  them  like  a  set  of  raw  recruits,  who  have  to  be 
bullied,  shouted  at,  sworn  to,  and  licked  into  shape 
from  end  to  end.  The  most  intense  power,  concentra- 
tion, and  active  energy  is  often  the  most  silent.  Look 
at  the  silent,  irresistible  weight  of  the  fly-wheel  that 
drives  the  machinery  of  a  large  manufactory,  or  the 
noiseless  swing  of  the  steam-hammer,  or  the  intense,  but 
silent,  and  apparently  motionless  vigor  of  the  poised 
eagle,  or  the  rapt  calmness  of  a  Moltke,  who  watches 
from  the  hill-side  every  evolution  of  the  troops  inspired 
by  him.  Only  occasionally  does  he  raise  his  telescope, 
pointing  his  hand,  or  sending  out  scouts  and  subalterns  ; 
and  in  proportion  as  all  goes  well,  is  fitly  inspired,  is  the 
embodiment  of  his  will — is  he  calm.  So  the  '  listless  ' 
Wagner  sits  and  orders  his  band,  and  they  know  his 
mind  and  obey  his  look,  and  heed  his  smallest  gesture, 
often  even  quite  unperceived  by  the  audience  ;  and  this 
worries  the  critics.  With  the  best  intentions  they  can't 
make  it  out,  who  are  used  to  their  hop,  skip,  and  a 
jump,  and  their  one,  two,  three,  and  away  conductors  ! 
Doubtless  ;  but  the  old  man  wins." 

A  French  critic  has   since  written  :  "  Wagner  plays 


186  MY   MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

on  the  orchestra  as  though  it  were  a  gigantic  fiddle,  with 
a  firmness  of  touch  which  never  fails  him,  and  sovereign 
authority  before  which  all  are  happy  in  bowing  down. 
To  have  an  idea  of  so  extraordinary  a  conductor,  one 
must  have  seen  him."  I  do  not  therefore  imply  that 
Wagner  in  his  last  years  was  fitted  to  go  through  the 
kind  of  drudgery  which  Richter  willingly  undertook, 
and  which  culminated  in  the  triumph  of  1876  at  Bay- 
reuth. 

The  close  of  Wagner's  life  was  crowned  by  the  two 
great  Olympian-like  festivals  in  1876  and  1882.  The 
Memorial  Festival  in  1883  was  his  requiem  ;  while  the 
whole  of  the  city  was  resounding  with  his  name  and 
fame,  the  great  master's  body  lay  at  rest  in  a  funereal 
bower  adjoining  the  l^eue  Schloss.  The  event  of  1876 
was,  I  suppose,  unprecedented  in  the  annals  of  Modern 
Art.  I  have  devoted  to  it  a  separate  notice.  It  was 
my  privilege  to  witness  the  first  unfolding  of  those  four 
:  colossal  musical  dramas  of  the  Niebelung'ls  Ring  on  the 
Bayreuth  stage.  People  had  assembled  from  all  parts  of 
the  civilized  world  ;  kings,  princes,  and  nobles  mingled 
in  that  motley  throng.  The  dramas  lasted  every  day 
from  four  till  ten,  with  intervals  of  an  hour  between  the 
acts.  The  whole  population  lived  only  in  the  life  of 
that  great  cycle  of  tragedies  in  which  gods,  demi-gods, 
and  mortals  acted  out,  with  more  than  earthly  intensity, 
the  perennially  interesting  dramas  of  human  life  and  pas- 
sion. 

It  was  between  the  festival  of  1876  at  Bayreuth,  and 
the  performance  of  Parsifal'm  1882,  that  Wagner  came 
to  England  to  assist  at  the  presentation  of  the  Ring 
music  at  the  Albert  Hall.  He  was  shaken  in  health, 
and  exceedingly  indisposed  to  take  any  exertion  not 
directly  bearing  upon  his  work — which  was  the  new 


1ST   VENICE.  187 

Parsifal  drama.  He  was  not  satisfied  with  his  recep- 
tion at  the  Alhert  Hall.  Tie  was  much  courted  in 
society,  but  avoided  anything  like  public  receptions,  and 
was  considered  over-retiring  and  reticent  by  casual  ob- 
servers. 

"Wagner  died  suddenly  on  the  13th  of  February,  1883, 
at  Venice,  whither  he  had  come  to  recruit  after  the 
Parsifal  performances  in  1882,  and  to  prepare  for  their 
renewal  in  the  following  year.  He  was  cut  off  in  the 
full  vigor  of  his  productive  genius.  Time  had  not 
dimmed  his  eye,  nor  shaken  his  hand,  nor  closed  a 
single  channel  of  thought  or  emotion.  He  sank  thus 
suddenly  in  the  spring  of  the  year  1883,  not  without 
some  warning,  yet  enjoying  life  up  to  its  latest  hour. 
"  I  will  bear  no  longer  the  gray  clouds  and  wintry  skies 
of  Bayreuth,"  he  had  said  to  his  friends  in  the  autumn 
of  1882. 

A  suite  of  apartments  in  the  Palace  Yendramin  at 
Venice  had  been  secured  for  him,  and  his  children — 
Daniel,  Eva,  Isolde,  and  Siegfried  (now  twelve  years 
old) — were  already  there.  Venice  was  in  the  greatest  ex- 
citement on  his  arrival.  Italy  had  been  in  the  strangest 
way  won  over  to  Wagner  at  Bologna,  under  the  able  and 
enthusiastic  baton  of  a  lamented  maestro  ;  indeed,  Liszt 
told  me  he  had  never  heard  Wagner's  operas  more  effec- 
tively given,  except  at  Bayreuth. 

It  was  Wagner's  desire  to  be  left  quiet  at  Venice,  and 
his  wishes  were  sedulously  respected  ;  but  he  was  never 
inaccessible,  and  he  was  often  to  be  found  in  the  Cafe, 
surrounded  by  a  group  of  friends.  The  first  remark  of 
the  Venetians  who  saw  that  spare,  vivid  figure,  with 
flashing  eye,  and  who  heard  the  master's  eager,  eloquent 
conversation,  full  of  wit  and  geniality,  was,  "  Why,  he 
is  not  an  old  man  at  all  !"  It  is  true,  there  is  something 


183  MY    MUSICAL    MEMORIES. 

of  the  eternal  child — an  afflatus  of  divine  youth — about 
all  great  genius. 

Wagner  rose  in  Italy  at  Venice  between  five  and  six, 
and  worked  till  ten.  In  Venice  he  wrote  his  last  art 
criticisms  ;  and  while  the  Italian  newspapers  affirmed 
that  he  was  already  at  work  upon  a  drama  connected 
with  Buddha  and  the  great  Aryan  legends,  the  German 
prints  declared  that  he  had  turned  his  attention  toward 
Greece,  and  was  going  to  Athens  to  try  and  recover  on 
the  spot  something  connected  with  the  ancient  Greek 
music.  At  the  same  time  he  was  indefatigable  in  his 
efforts  to  prepare  for  the  repetitions  of  Parsifal  in  1883, 
at  which  he  intended  to  be  present  and  which  were  car- 
ried out  at  Bayreuth  with  such  magnificent  success — 
July,  1883 — in  sad  memory  of  his  death. 

lie  was  already  suffering  from  heart-disease,  and  sat 
usually — the  weather  being  chilly — in  his  fur  coat.  A 
glass  of  wine  was  always  at  hand,  and  when  he  suffered 
pain  he  would  sip  cognac. 

His  rooms,  however,  before  breakfast  were  sacred, 
and  his  wife  Cosima  scrupulously  respected  them  ;  but  at 
ten  o'clock  she  went  in  to  bring  him  his  letters,  and  after 
a  short  private  chat  the  family  breakfasted  together. 
"Wagner  would  then  take  his  hat  and  go  down  the  marble 
steps  looking  out  upon  the  canal,  and  ask  his  gondolier 
about  the  weather.  If  too  cold  to  venture  out  he  would 
stroll  forth,  often  with  his  wife,  and  go  into  Lavenna's, 
the  pastry-cook's,  and  buy  bonbons  for  the  children. 

Between  four  and  six  o'clock  he  might  often  be  seen 
in  the  arcades  and  streets,  with  all  the  family,  buying 
little  presents  for  friends,  or  sipping  coffee  or  the  good 
fresh  beer  beloved  of  all  true  Germans.  The  military 
band  which  played  occasionally  in  the  great  square  had 
produced  a  version  of  the  Lohengrin  overture  in  his 


HIS   AFTERNOON.  189 

honor,  but  played  it  in  such  fashion  that  poor  Wagner 
was  constrained  to  take  refuge  in  the  pastry-cook's  shop 
and  stop  his  ears  with  both  hands. 

On  another  occasion,  however,  he  went  up  to  the 
bandmaster,  in  his  great  coat  and  slouched  hat,  and 
asked  him  to  play  something  out  of  Rossini's  Gazza 
Ladra.  The  conductor,  not  recognizing  Wagner,  an- 
swered civilly  that  he  had  none  of  the  music  there,  and 
otherwise  could  not  well  derange  the  programme.  On 
Wagner  retiring  a  musician  told  the  bandmaster  who  the 
stranger  was.  Filled  with  confusion  and  regret,  the 
worthy  man  instantly  sent  for  copies  of  the  Gazza 
Ladra  selection,  and  played  it  for  two  consecutive  days. 
Wagner  was  much  pleased,  and,  again  going  up  to  the 
band,  expressed  his  thanks,  and  praised  especially  the 
solo  cornet,  who  had  much  distinguished  himself. 

The  master  dined  early  in  the  afternoon,  and  usually 
took  a  short  nap  afterward,  the  faithful  Betty  Burke],  a 
confidential  family  servant,  always  being  at  hand  in  the 
next  room,  knitting  quietly. 

At  half-past  three  the  gondolier  was  usually  in  attend- 
ance, and  in  fine  weather  the  Lido,  the  public  gardens, 
the  San  Lazzaro,  and  Giudecca  were  visitad. 

In  the  milder  autumn  days  of  1882,  Wagner,  whose 
breathing  was  occasionally  oppressed,  seemed  to  inhale 
new  health  and  vigor  out  upon  the  wide  lagunes. 
"Ah!"  he  would  say,  drawing  a  long  breath;  "no 
smoke,  no  dust !"  At  night  his  sitting-rooms  were  a 
blaze  of  light  with  quantities  of  wax-candles.  People 
used  to  look  up  at  Byron's  quarters  when  he  was  in 
Yenice,  and  wonder  what  festival  could  be  going  on. 
The  waters  of  the  Grand  Canal  were  all  aglow,  but  it 
was  only  Byron,  alone  with  the  MSS.  of  Manfred,  Pa- 
risina,  and  Don  Juan.  Wagner's  old  porter  happened 


190  MY    MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

to  he  a  brother  to  Byron's  old  servant,  Fido.  "  There 
is  something  like  Byron  about  this  great  German,"  he 
remarked.  "  What  is  that  ?"  they  asked.  "  Why,  he 
has  the  same  marvellous  need  of  \vax-candles  !" 
"Where  light  is,  there  is  joy,"  Wagner  used  to  say, 
quoting  the  Italian  proverb. 

As  the  evenings  drew  on,  Wagner  used  to  read  aloud 
to  his  family — usually  from  some  dramatic  author.  He 
sometimes  got  so  excited  that  the  good  people  in  the 
house  knocked  at  the  door  to  know  if  anything  ailed  the 
master  ? 

When  absorbed  in  thought,  he  was  in  the  habit  of 
pacing  up  and  down  the  room,  with  his  hands  behind 
him.  He  even  had  pockets  made  at  the  back  of  his 
coat.  Dr.  Keppler  said  this  position  of  the  arms  al- 
lowed him  to  breathe  more  freely,  and  eased  the  diseased 
action  of  the  heart. 

On  November  19th,  1882,  Liszt  came  to  see  him  at 
Venice.  The  two  old  men  embraced  each  other  affec- 
tionately on  the  marble  stairs.  They  sat  long  hours 
together  in  deep  and  friendly  converse.  Joukovski, 
the  artist,  who  had  painted  the  Parsifal  scenery,  and 
for  whom  the  genius  of  Wagner  had  an  irresistible  at- 
traction, was  also  there.  He  painted  a  remarkable  por- 
trait of  Liszt,  and  a  "Sacred  Family"  of  Jesus, 
Joseph,  and  Mary.  The  guardian  angels  in  the  air 
above  were  all  portraits  of  Wagner's  children. 

Liszt  was  usually  up  at  four  o'clock,  and  both  Wagner 
and  Liszt  got  through  a  great  deal  of  serious  work  in 
those  small  hours. 

Wagner's  personal  popularity  at  Venice  was  extraor- 
dinary. In  a  short  time  he  and  every  member  of  his 
family  were  known  even  to  the  children  of  the  poor. 
The  master  was  open-handed  and  sympathetic  to  all. 


STRANGE   PRESENTIMENT.  191 

He  seemed  ever  about — now  with  his  wife,  or  with  little 
Eva,  his  pet  daughter,  or  Siegfried.  He  mixed  with  the 
people,  chatted  and  joked,  and  was  ever  ready  to  relieve 
the  poor.  He  was  worshipped  by  his  gondoliers.  "  He 
patted  me  on  the  back,"  said  one,  "  asked  me  if  I  wras 
tired,  and  said,  *  Amico  mio,  so  the  Carnival  has  come 
to  an  end. '  :  The  man  repeated  the  incident  every- 
where, as  if  it  had  been  the  great  event  of  his  life. 
"  They  say  he  is  greater  than  a  king  ;  isn't  it  so  ?" 
(Egli  e  piu  di  un  re,  discono  non  e1  vero  f)  was  the  com- 
mon talk  in  the  streets  as  he  passed. 

On  December  23d,  1882,  Wagner  conducted  his  earli-- 
est  symphony  at  the  request  of  a  small  circle  of  friends 
in  celebration  of  Madame  Wagner's  birthday.  On  tak- 
ing the  baton  he  turned  to  the  musicians  and  said  : 

"  This  is  the  last  time  I  shall  ever  conduct." 

"  Why  2"  they  asked. 

"  Because  I  shall  soon  die." 

This  was  not  at  all  his  usual  mood  ;  he  spoke  some- 
times of  living  till  ninety — he  said  that  he  could  hardly 
finish  the  work  he  had  in  his  mind  even  then.  His 
doctor  knew  that  his  heart  disease  must  one  day  carry 
him  off,  but  hoped  the  end  might  be  delayed  for  five  or 
six  years  at  least.  He  was  very  sanguine  himself,  but 
not  over-prudent.  He  took  too  much  tea  and  coffee  and 
stimulant  ;  he  was  deaf  to  all  warnings,  and  joked  on  the 
doctors  forbidding  their  patients  to  indulge  in  these 
things  without  setting  them  a  good  example.  But  there 
were  moments  when  his  words,  spoken  lightly,  were  un- 
consciously prophetic  of  the  coming  end.  He  had  taken 
the  utmost  delight  in  the  Carnival  of  1883  at  Venice, 
and  on  the  first  day  of  Lent  said  to  his  gondolier,  "  And 
where  is  it  the  fashion  to  go  to-day  ?"  u  To  the  new  ne- 
cropolis, my  gracious  master, ' '  replied  the  man.  Arrived 


192  MY   MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

at  the  necropolis,  Wagner  alighted  and  walked  all  over 
the  place,  admiring  the  quiet  and  reposeful  niches  and 
the  tastefully  laid-out  lawns  and  shrubberies. 

"And  was  my  worshipful  sir  pleased?"  asked  the 
gondolier. 

"  Yes,  uncommonly,"  replied  Wagner  ;  "  and  I  shall 
soon  find  some  such  quiet  spot  for  my  own  last  resting- 
place.  ' ' 

Indeed,  there  were  mornings  when  he  would  go  out 
and  return  breathless  in  ten  minutes.  Once  at  his  bank- 
er's, and  again  at  the  pastry-cook's,  he  was  seized  with 
faintness  and  put  into  his  gondola.  He  urgently  begged 
that  his  family  might  not  be  told  of  this.  They  had  their 
own  misgivings.  When  alone  he  had  been  overheard 
groaning,  and  was  found  sometimes  with  his  hand  pressed 
to  his  heart  ;  but  he  would  rally  and  make  light  of  it, 
and  soon  seemed  quite  well  again  ;  indeed,  on  the  12th 
(he  died  on  the  13th)  he  said  he  felt  better  than  he 
had  for  weeks — the  breathing  was  freer  and  the  pulse 
regular. 

February  13th  came  black  with  clouds.  The  rain 
poured  in  torrents.  Wagner  rose  as  usual,  and  an- 
nounced his  wish  not  to  be  disturbed  till  dinner-time, 
two  o'clock.  He  had  much  to  do — much  to  finish — 
overmuch  indeed,  and  the  time  was  short. 

The  master  did  not  feel  quite  well,  and  Cosima,  his 
wife,  bade  Betty,  the  servant,  take  her  work  and  not 
leave  the  ante-room  in  case  her  master  should  call  or 
ring. 

The  faithful  creature  seemed  to  have  some  presenti- 
ment that  all  was  not  right.  She  listened  hour  after 
hour — heard  the  master  striding  up  and  down  as  was  his 
wont. 

Wife  Cosima  came    in  from    time  to  time.      "  The 


DEATH.  193 

master  works  ever,"  said  Betty,  "  and  has  not  called  for 
anything — now  he  walks  to  and  fro. ' ' 

At  one  o'clock  Wagner  rang  his  bell  and  asked  :  "  Is 
the  gondola  ordered  at  four  o'clock  ?  Good  ;  then  I 
will  take  a  plate  of  soup  up  here,  for  I  don't  feel  very 
well." 

There  was  nothing  unusual  about  this,  for  when 
absorbed  in  work  he  would  often  thus  have  his  light 
luncheon  alone. 

The  servant  brought  in  a  plate  of  soup  and  retired. 
All  seemed  quiet  for  some  time.  Then  suddenly  a  hur- 
ried pacing  up  and  down  the  room  was  heard.  The 
footsteps  ceased — a  sharp  cough,  checked.  Betty  threw 
down  her  work,  walked  on  tip-toe  to  the  door,  and 
listened  with  all  her  ears.  She  heard  one  deep  groan  ; 
she  stood  for  a  moment  divided  between  a  resolve  to  call 
Cosima  or  break  through  her  master's  orders  and  go  into 
his  room  at  once.  The  suspense  was  soon  over. 
"  Betty  !"  It  was  Wagner's  voice,  very  faint.  Betty 
rudied  in.  Wagner  was  leaning  back  on  his  sofa,  his 
fur  coat  was  half  off,  his  feet  rested  on  a  footstool.  His 
face  was  fearfully  changed — his  features  cadaverous  and 
drawn  down  with  pain  evidently  ;  with  the  utmost  diffi- 
culty he  contrived  to  murmur,  but  almost  inaudibly, 
"  Call  my  wife  and  the  doctor."  Pie  never  spoke  again. 

The  terrified  Betty  rushed  off  to  tell  wife  Cosima. 
The  instant  she  saw  him  she  cried,  "  To  the  doctor, 
Betty  !"  Dr.  Keppler  was  sent  for  three  times  ;  at  last 
he  was  found  just  finishing  an  operation.  Meanwhile 
Madame  Wagner  had  sat  down  by  her  husband.  He 
immediately  laid  his  head  on  her  shoulder,  groaning,  but 
speechless  ;  and  she  placed  her  arms  about  him,  and 
with  one  hand  rubbed  his  heart,  an  act  which  had  some- 
times eased  him  when  in  pain.  His  breathing  grew 


194  MY   MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

softer  and  lighter,  and  presently  he  seemed  to  subside 
into  a  quiet,  motionless  sleep.  She  thought  it  a  good 
sign. 

About  half  an  hour  afterward  the  doctor  came.  One 
glance  was  enough.  He  found  Madame  Wagner  still 
holding  her  husband  in  both  her  arms,  with  his  head 
resting  on  her  shoulder.  ' '  He  sleeps, ' '  she  said — and  the 
good  doctor,  suppressing  his  emotion  with  a  great  effort, 
did  not  tell  her  that  it  was  the  sleep  of  death,  and  that 
now  for  a  long  time  she  had  been  embracing  a  corpse. 

Dr.  Keppler,  after  feeling  for  the  pulse  that  was  never 
to  beat  again,  gently  took  the  body  of  Wagner  in  both 
his  arms  and  carried  it  to  his  bed.  It  could  not  be  called 
his  death-bed,  for  Wagner  died  as  he  had  lived,  working 
— the  table  before  him  was  strewn  with  books  and 
MSS.,  with  the  ink  scarcely  dry  upon  the  last  page. 

Dr.  Keppler  then  turned  to  Cosima  and  said,  with  irre- 
pressible emotion,  "  lie  is  dead  !"  The  poor  wife,  who 
had  been  so  absolutely  one  in  body,  soul,  and  mind  with 
her  husband,  fell  prostrate  with  a  great  cry  upon  his  life- 
less body,  nor  for  some  time  could  any  persuasion  in- 
duce her  to  leave  the  corpse,  which  she  continued  to  em- 
brace. 

But  over  the  intense  sorrow  of  this  true-hearted  and 
affectionate  German  family  1  will  draw  the  veil.  The 
servants  all  seemed  to  lose  their  heads.  A  vast  crowd 
had  by  this  time  assembled  outside  the  palace  "  Vcn- 
dramin."  The  bulletin  had  flown  through  Venice, 
"  Richard  Wagner  is  very  ill — the  doctor  is  at  his  bed- 
side." No  more  than  this  was  known  in  the  town  at 
half -past  four.  At  half -past  five  Dr.  Keppler  came 
down  the  steps  and  was  greeted  with  shouts  of  "  The 
doctor  !  the  doctor  !"  In  the  dead  silence  which  fol- 
lowed, Dr.  Keppler,  uncovering  his  head,  said,  u  Rich- 


FUNERAL   HOXOliS.  195 

ard  Wagner  is  dead.     He  died  an  hour  ago  from  the 
effects  of  heart-disease." 

No  sooner  had  Dr.  Keppler  pronounced  the  words, 
"  Richard  Wagner  is  dead  !"  from  the  steps  of  the 
"  Yendramin  Palace,"  than  the  vast  throng  assembled 
outside  to  hear  the  news  dispersed  with  cries  of  "  Dead  ! 
dead  !"  and  in  a  short  time  there  was  not  a  cafe  in 
Yenice  without  the  bulletin,  "  Riccardo  Wagner,  {I 
famoso  tedesco,  il  gran  Maestro  del  Vendramin,  e 
morto."  It  was  commonly  said  that  since  Garibaldi's 
death  no  such  sensation  had  been  felt  in  Yenice. 

The  gondolier  who  had  been  ordered  by  Wagner  at 
four  o'clock  had  been  in  attendance  ever  since.  Poor 
Luigi  heard  the  news  in  speechless  astonishment  and 
grief  ;  at  last,  breaking  out  in  sobs,  he  exclaimed, 
"  Ah  !  to  think  that  only  yesterday  I  rowed  him  in  this 
gondola — the  good,  noble,  great  man,  who  never  said  an 
unkind  word  to  any  of  us,  although  he  was  so  ill  ! 
Here,  here  is  his  name  ;"  and  he  held  up  his  ivory- 
handled  walking-stick  with  the  initials  "  R.  W." 
"And  now  he  must  needs  die — Per  Bacco  !  Poor 
dear  man  !  how  many  people  in  this  world  could  have 
been  better  spared  !"  Luigi  also  took  care  of  a  little 
kitten  which  had  become  a  pet  of  Wagner's,  having 
been  rescued  by  him  from  an  untimely  end  in  the  canal. 
"  See,"  he  would  say,  "  even  this  kitten  he  saved  from 
drowning  two  months  ago  knows  what  it  has  lost.  It 
will  hardly  move  ;  it  lies  always  here  in  the  gondola, 
just  behind  where  the  master  used  to  sit." 

Ill  news  in  these  days  of  telegraphy  flies  indeed  apace. 
The  wires  were  blocked.  In  the  course  of  the  week  no 
less  than  five  thousand  despatches  of  condolence  reached 
Yeriice,  addressed  to  the  Wagner  family,  from  all  parts 
of  the  civilized  world. 


196  MY    MUSICAL   MEMOIIIES. 

Soon  after  deatli  Wagner's  body  was  embalmed  by  liis 
devoted  medical  attendant,  Dr.  Keppler,  and  a  cast  of 
liis  face  was  taken  by  Signor  Benvenuto. 

The  bronze  coffin  which  arrived  from  Vienna  was 
carried  upstairs  by  Hans  Richter,  the  painter  Jonkovsky, 
Dr.  Keppler,  Passini,  and  Ruben  ;  and  the  dead  master 
was  borne  to  his  funereal  gondola  by  the  same  devoted 
friends.  The  general  expressions  of  sympathy  were 
confined  to  no  class. 

The  Italian  Government  had  offered  the  family  a  pub- 
lic ceremony,  which  was  declined  ;  yet  I  know  not  what 
greater  honor  could  have  been  paid  him  than  the  spon- 
taneous grief  of  all  Yenice.  The  high  municipal  offi- 
cers, the  chief  nobles,  and  an  immense  throng  accom- 
panied the  gondola  to  the  station.  The  canals  were 
crowded  with  gondolas  draped  in  crape. 

In  all  the  ports  through  which  the  coffin  passed  the 
flags  floated  half-mast  high.  At  every  town  where 
there  was  a  stoppage  the  municipalities  sent  deputations, 
and  the  coffin  was  strewn  with  fresh  flowers. 

At  the  head  of  the  bier  there  was  one  enormous 
wreath,  sent  by  the  King  of  Bavaria,  "Wagner's  close 
friend,  and  at  Munich  the  king  sent  his  representative 
to  accompany  the  funeral  cortege  to  Bayreuth. 

I  will  not  dwell  further  upon  the  honors  paid  by  the 
way,  the  processions  of  musical  societies,  the  number- 
less wreaths,  which  by  the  time  the  coffin  reached  Bay- 
reuth amounted  to  fourteen  hundred  and  filled  two  large 
cars. 

On  the  17th  the  bier  was  received  at  the  station  by 
the  inhabitants  of  Bayreuth  en  masse.  It  was  a  solemn 
moment  when  the  widow  and  her  children  stepped  out 
of  their  carriage,  and  all  the  people  silently  uncovered 
their  heads. 


THE   GRAVE.  107 

A  brigade  of  firemen  moved  in  front  of  the  hearse, 
which  was  drawn  by  four  black  horses.  All  the  gas 
lamps  were  lighted  along  the  road,  and  black  pennons 
streamed  from  tall  poles  to  right  and  left.  Midway  a  ;, 
fresh  wreath  arrived  from  the  king  with  a  large  inscrip- 
tion, "  To  the  Deathless  One"  and  at  the  same  time 
the  burgomaster  laid  another  one  on  the  coffin  in  the 
name  of  the  city  of  Bayreuth. 

Arrived  at  Wagner's  house,  "  Vahnfried  " — only  a 
select  company  were  admitted  to  the  garden — the  coffin 
rested  for  a  space  at  the  entrance,  but  was  not  taken  into 
the  house. 

It  rwas  Madame  Wagner's  express  wish  that  no 
speeches  or  prayers  should  be  made  at  the  grave — which 
had  long  since  been  dug,  by  Wagner's  orders,  in  a  re- 
tired spot  of  his  own  garden,  surrounded  by  thick  bushes 
and  fir-trees.  A  simple  blessing  in  the  name  of  the 
Church  was  to  be  given,  and  the  coffin  then  lowered  in 
silence. 

An  immense  slab  of  gray  polished  granite  rested 
above  it,  and  the  vault  door  was  to  be  opened  on  one 
side.  Hither  was  the  body  now  brought  by  a  silent  and 
sorrowing  throng  of  attached  friends — among  them  ' 
Liszt,  Billow,  Richter,  Joukovsky,  and  many  more. 
On  either  side  walked  Wagner's  children,  and  when  the 
coffin  was  about  to  be  slid  into  the  grave,  they  mounted 
on  the  gray  slab  above  it  and  knelt  down. 

At  this  moment  Wagner's  two  favorite  dogs  burst 
through  the  thickets,  and  sprang  toward  the  children  to 
seek  their  usual  caresses — they,  too,  had  lost  a  kind 
master,  but  they  knew  it  not. 

Then  Herr  Caselmann,  in  the  simplest  words,  com- 
mitted the  departed,  and  all  his  family,  to  the  care  of 
Christ,  and  blessed  the  assembly  and  the  grave  in  the 


198  MY   MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

name  of  the  Church.  This  was  all  in  exact  accordance 
with  Madame  "Wagner's  wishes.  A  few  took  a  leaf  or  a 
flower  as  it  fell  from  the  piled-up  heap,  and  the  body 
was  lowered  silently  into  its  last  resting-place — earth  to 
earth — dust  to  dust  ! 

****** 

I  visited  Bayreuth  on  the  24th  of  July,  1883,  and  at- 
tended two  crowded  performances  of  Wagner's  last 
work,  Parsifal.  In  the  morning  I  went  into  the  beau- 
tiful gardens  of  the  Neue  Schloss.  On  either  side  of  a 
lake,  upon  which  float  a  couple  of  swans  and  innumer- 
able water-lilies,  the  long  park-like  avenues  of  trees  are 
vocal  with  wild  doves,  and  the  robin  is  heard  in  the  ad- 
joining thickets.  At  my  approach  the  sweet  song  ceases 
abruptly,  and  the  startled  bird  flies  out,  scattering  the 
pale  petals  of  the  wild  roses  upon  my  path.  I  follow  a 
stream  of  people  on  foot,  as  they  move  down  the  left- 
hand  avenue  in  the  garden  of  the  Neue  Schloss,  which 
adjoins  Wagner's  own  grounds. 

Some  are  going — some  are  coming.  Presently  I  see 
an  opening  in  the  bashes  on  my  left ;  the  path  leads  me 
to  a  clump  of  evergreens.  I  follow  it,  and  come  sud- 
denly on  the  great  composer's  grave.  All  about  the 
green  square  mound  the  trees  are  thick — laurel,  fir,  and 
yew.  The  shade  falls  funereally  across  the  immense 
gray  granite  slab  ;  but  over  the  dark  foliage  the  sky  is 
bright  blue,  and  straight  in  front  of  me,  above  the  low 
bushes,  I  can  see  the  bow- windows  of  the  dead  master's 
study — where  I  spent  with  him  one  delightful  evening 
in  1876. 

I  can  see,  too,  the  jet  of  water  that  he  loved  playing 
high  above  the  hedge  of  evergreen.  It  lulls  me  with  its 
sound.  "  Yahnfried  !  Yahnfried  !"  it  seems  to  mur- 
mur. It  was  the  word  written  above  the  master's  house 


A  VISIT  TO  WAGNER'S  GRAVE.  109 

—the  word  lie  most  loved — the  word  his  tireless  spirit  //" 
most  believed  in.      How  shall  1  render  it?     "Dream- 
life  !  dream-life  !     Earth's  illusion  of  joy  !" 

Great  spirit  !  thy  dream-life  here  is  past,  and  face 
to  face  with  truth,  "  rapt  from  the  fickle  and  the  frail," 
for  thee  the  illusion  has  vanished  !  Mayest  thou  also 
know  the  fulness  of  joy  in  the  unbroken  and  serene  ac- 
ti%~ities  of  the  eternal  Reality  ! 

I  visited  the  grave  twice.     There  is  nothing  written  , 
on  the  granite  slab.     There  were  never  present  less  than  *' 
twenty  persons,  and  a  constant  stream  of  pilgrims  kept 
coming  and  going. 

One  gentle  token  of  the  master's  pitiful  and  tender 
regard  for  the  faithful  dumb  animals  he  so  loved  lies  but 
a  few  feet  off  in  the  same  garden,  and  not  far  from  his 
own  grave. 

Upon  a  mossy  bank,  surrounded  with  evergreens,  is  a 
small  marble  slab,  with  this  inscription  to  his  favorite 
dog: 

"  Here  hes  in  peace  i  VahnfriecTs  '  faithful  watcher 
and  friend — the  good  and  beautiful  Mark  "  (der  gute, 
schone  Mark)  ! 

I  returned,  too,  to  Wagner's  tomb,  plucked  a  branch 
of  the  fir-tree  that  waved  above  it,  and  went  back  to  my 
room  to  prepare  myself  by  reading  and  meditation  for 
the  great  religious  drama  which  I  was  to  witness  at  four 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon — "Wagner's  latest  and  highest 
inspiration — the  story  of  the  sacred  brotherhood,  the 
knights  of  San  Graal — Parsifal ! 


CHAPTER  YL 

PARSIFAL. 

THE  blood  of  God  ! — mystic  symbol  of  divine  life — 
"  for  the  blood  is  the  life  thereof."  That  is  the  key- 
note of  Parsifal,  the  Knight  of  the  Sangrail.  Wine  is 
the  ready  symbolical  vehicle — the  material  link  between 
the  divine  and  the  human  life.  In  the  old  religions, 
\  that  heightened  consciousness,  that  intensity  of  feeling 
produced  by  stimulant,  was  thought  to  be  the  very  en- 
tering in  of  the  "god" — the  union  of  the  divine  and 
human  spirit  ;  and  in  the  Eleusinian  mysteries,  the 
"  sesame  " — the  bread  of  Demeter,  the  earth  mother, 
and  the  "  kykeon,"  or  wine  of  Dionysos — the  vine  god 
— were  thus  sacramental. 

The  passionate  desire  to  approach  and  mingle  with 
Deity  is  the  one  mystic  bond  common  to  all  religions  in 
all  lands.  It  is  the  "  cry  of  the  human;"  it  traverses 
the  ages,  it  exhausts  many  symbols  and  transcends  all 
forms. 

To  the  Christian  it  is  summed  up  in  the  "  Lord's 
Supper." 

The  mediaeval  legend  of  the  Sangrail  (real  or  royal 
blood)  is  the  most  poetic  and  pathetic  form  of  transub- 
stantiation  ;  in  it  the  gross  materialism  of  the  Roman 
Mass  almost  ceases  to  be  repulsive  ;  it  possesses  the  true 
legendary  power  of  attraction  and  assimilation. 

As  the  Knights  of  the  Table  Round,  with  their  holy 
vows,  provided  mediaeval  Chivalry  with  a  centre,  so  did 


THE   MYSTIC   UNION.  201 

the  Lord's  table,  with  its  Sangrail,  provide  mediaeval 
Religion  with  its  central  attractive  point.  And  as  all 
marvellous  tales  of  knightly  heroism  circled  round  King 
Arthur's  table,  so  did  the  great  legends  embodying  the 
Christian  conceptions  of  sin,  punishment,  and  redemp- 
tion circle  round  the  Sangrail  and  the  sacrifice  of  the 
"Mass." 

In   the  legends    of    Parsifal  and    Lohengrin,    the  > 
knightly  and    religious    elements  are  welded  together. 
This  is  enough.     We  need'  approach  Parsifal  with  no 
deep  knowledge  of  the  various  Sagas  made  use   of  by 
Wagner  in  his  drama.     His  disciples,  while  most  eager 
to  trace  its  various  elements  to  their  sources,  are  most 
emphatic  in  declaring  that  the  Parsifal  drama,  so  in-  K' 
timately  true  to  the   spirit   of  Roman  Catholicism,  is 
nevertheless  a  new  creation. 

Joseph  of  Arimathea  received  in  a  crystal  cup  the 
blood  of  Christ  as  it  flowed  from  the  spear-wound  made 
by  the  Roman  soldier.  The  cup  and  the  spear  were 
committed  to  Titurel,  who  became  a  holy  knight  and 
head  of  a  sacred  brotherhood  of  knights.  They  dwelt  in 
the  Vizigoth  Mountains  of  Southern  Spain,  where,  amidst 
impenetrable  forests,  rose  the  legendary  palace  of  Mont- 
salvat.  Here  they  guarded  the  sacred  relics,  issuing 
forth  at  times  from  their  palatial  fortress,  like  Lohen- 
grin, to  fight  for  innocence  and  right,  and  always  re- 
turning to  renew  their  youth  and  strength  by  the  celes- 
tial contemplation  of  the  Sangrail,  and  by  occasional 
participation  in  the  holy  feast. 

Time  and  history  count  for  very  little  in  these  narra- 
tives. It  was  allowed,  however,  that  Titurel  the  Chief 
had  grown  extremely  aged,  but  it  was  not  allowed  that 
he  could  die  in  the  presence  of  the  Sangrail.  He  seemed 
to  have  been  laid  in  a  kind  of  trance,  resting  in  an  open 


202  MY    MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

tomb  beneath  the  altar  of  the  Grail  ;  and  whenever  the 
cup  was  uncovered  his  voice  might  be  heard  joining  in 
the  celebration.  Meanwhile,  Amfortis,  his  son,  reigned 
in  his  stead. 

Montsalvat,  with  its  pure,  contemplative,  but  active 
brotherhood,  and  its  mystic  cup,  thus  stands  out  as  the 
poetic  symbol  of  all  that  is  highest  and  best  in  mediaeval 
Christianity. 

The  note  of  the  wicked  world — Magic  for  Devotion — 
Sensuality  for  Worship — breaks  in  upon  our  vision,  as 
the  scene  changes  from  the  Halls  of  Montsalvat  to 
Klingsor's  palace.  Klingsor,  an  impure  knight,  who 
has  been  refused  admittance  to  the  order  of  the  "  San- 
grail,"  enters  into  a  compact  with  the  powers  of  evil — by 
magic  acquires  arts  of  diabolical  fascination — fills  his 
palace  and  gardens  with  enchantments,  and  wages  bitter 
war  against  the  holy  knights,  with  a  view  of  corrupting 
them,  and  ultimately,  it  may  be,  of  acquiring  for  him- 
self the  "  San  grail,"  in  which  all  power  is  believed  to 
reside.  Many  knights  have  already  succumbed  to  the 
"  insidious  arts"  of  Klingsor  ;  but  the  tragical  turning 
point  of  the  Parsifal  is  that  Amfortis,  himself  the  son 
of  Titurel,  the  official  guardian  of  the  Grail,  in  making 
war  upon  the  magician,  took  with  him  the  sacred  spear, 
and  lost  it  to  Klingsor. 

It  came  about  in  this  way.  A  woman  of  unearthly 
loveliness  won  him  in  the  enchanted  bowers,  adjoining 
the  evil  knight's  palace,  and  Klingsor,  seizing  the  holy 
spear,  thrust  it  into  Amfortis's  side,  inflicting  therewith 
an  incurable  wound.  The  brave  knight,  Gurnemanz, 
dragged  his  master  fainting  from  the  garden,  his  com- 
panions of  the  Sangrail  covering  their  retreat.  But,  re- 
turned to  Montsalvat,  the  unhappy  king  awakes  only  to 
bewail  his  sin,  the  loss  of  the  sacred  spear,  and  the  cease- 


ORCHESTRAL   PRELUDE.  203 

less  harrowing  smart  of  an  incurable  wound.     But  who 
is  Parsifal  ? 

*  *  #         .    *  *  * 

The  smell  of  pine-woods  in  July  !  The  long  avenue 
outside  the  city  of  Bayreuth,  that  leads  straight  up  the 
hill,  crowned  by  the  Wagner  Theatre,  a  noble  structure 
—  architecturally  admirable  —  severe,  simple,  but  ex- 
actly adapted  to  its  purpose.  I  join  the  stream  of  pil- . 
grims,  some  in  carriages,  others  on  foot.  As  we  ap- 
proach, a  clear  blast  of  trombones  and  brass  from  the 
terrace  in  front  of  the  grand  entrance  plays  out  the 
Grail  "  motive."  It  is  the  well-known  signal — there  is 
no  time  to  be  lost.  I  enter  at  the  prescribed  door,  and 
find  myself  close  to  my  appointed  place.  Every  one — 
such  is  the  admirable  arrangement — seems  to  do  like- 
wise. In  a  few  minutes  about  one  thousand  persons  are 
seated  without  confusion.  The  theatre  is  darkened,  the 
foot-lights  are  lowered,  the  prelude  begins. 

ACT  I. 

The  waves  of  sound  rise  from  the  shadowy  gulf 
sunken  between  the  audience  and  the  foot-lights.  Upon 
the  sound  ocean  of  "wind"  the  "Take,  eat,"  or 
"Love-feast"  motive  floats.  Presently  the  strings 
pierce  through  it,  the  Spear  motive  follows,  and  then, 
full  of  heavy  pain,  "  Drink  ye  all  of  this,"  followed  by 
the  famous  Grail  motive — an  old  chorale  also  used  by 
Mendelssohn  in  the  Reformation  Symphony.  Then 
comes  the  noble  Faith  and  Love  theme.  , 

As  I  sit  in  the  low  light,  amklst  the  silent  throng,  and 
listen,  I  need  no  interpreter,  I  am  being  placed  in  pos- 
session of  the  emotional  key-notes  of  the  drama. 
Every  subject  is  first  distinctly  enunciated,  and  then  all 


204  MY    MTSIO'AL   MEMORIES. 

are  wondrously  blended  together.  There  is  the  pain  of 
sacrifice — the  mental  agony,  the  bodily  torture  ;  there 
are  the  alternate  pauses  of-  Sorrow  and  respite  from  sor- 
row long  drawn  out,  the  sharp  ache  of  Sin,  the  glimpses 
of  unhallowed  Joy,  the  strain  of  upward  Endeavor,  the 
serene  peace  of  Faith  and  Love,  crowned  by  the  blessed 
Vision  of  the  Grail.  'Tis  past.  The  prelude  melts  into 
the  opening  recitative. 

The  eyes  have  now  to  play  their  part.  The  curtain 
rises,  the  story  begins.  The  morning  breaks  slowly,  the 
gray  streaks  redden,  a  lovely  summer  landscape  lies 
bathed  in  primrose  light.  Under  the  shadow  of  a  noble 
tree,  the  aged  knight,  Gurnemanz,  has  been  resting  with 
two  young  attendants.  From  the  neighboring  halls  of 
Montsalvat  the  solemn  reveille — the  Grail  motive — rings 
out,  and  all  three  sink  on  their  knees  in  prayer.  The 
sun  bursts  forth  in  splendor,  as  the  hymn  rises  to  mingle 
with  the  voices  of  universal  nature.  The  waves  of 
sound  well  up  and  fill  the  soul  with  unspeakable  thank- 
fulness and  praise. 

The  talk  is  of  Amfortis,  the  king,  and  of  his  incu- 
rable wound.  A  wild  gallop,  a  rush  of  sound,  and  a 
weird  woman,  with  streaming  hair,  springs  toward  the 
startled  group.  She  bears  a  phial,  with  rare  balsam 
from  the  Arabian  shores.  It  is  for  the  king's  wound. 
Who  is  the  wild  horsewoman  ? — Kundry — strange  crea- 
tion— a  being  doomed  to  wander,  like  the  Wandering 
Jew,  the  wild  Huntsman,  or  Flying  Dutchman,  always 
seeking  a  deliverance  she  cannot  find — Kundry,  who, 
in  ages  gone  by  met  the  Saviour  on  the  road  to  Calvary, 
and  derided  him.  Some  said  she  was  Herodias's 
daughter.  Now  filled  with  remorse,  yet  weighted  with 
sinful  longings,  she  serves  by  turns  the  Knights  of  the 
Grail,  then  falls  under  the  spell  of  Klingsor,  the  evil 


AMFORTIS  APPROACHES.  205 

kniglit  sorcerer,  and,  in  the  guise  of  an  enchantress,  is 
compelled  by  him  to  seduce,  if  possible,  the  Knights  of 
the  Grail. 

Eternal  symbol  of  the  divided  allegiance  of  a  woman's 
soul  !  She  it  was  who,  under  the  sensual  spell,  as  an  in- 
carnation of  loveliness,  overcame  Amfortis,  and  she  it 
is  now  who,  in  her  ardent  quest  for  salvation,  changed 
and  squalid  in  appearance,  serves  the  Knights  of  the 
Grail,  and  seeks  to  heal  Amfortis's  wound  ! 

No  sooner  has  she  delivered  her  balsam  to  the  faith- 
ful Gurnemanz,  and  thrown  herself  exhausted  upon  the 
grass  —where  she  lies  gnawing  her  hair  morosely — than 
a  change  in  the  sound  atmosphere,  which  never  ceases  to 
be  generated  in  the  mystic  orchestral  gulf,  presages  the 
approach  of  Amfortis. 

lie  comes,  borne  on  a  litter,  to  his  morning  bath  in 
the  shining  lake  hard  by.  Sharp  is  the  pain  of  the 
wound — weary  and  hopeless  is  the  king.  Through  the 
"Wound-motive  comes  the  sweet  woodland  music  and  the 
breath  of  the  blessed  morning,  fragrant  with  flowers  and 
fresh  with  dew.  It  is  one  of  those  incomparable  bursts 
of  woodland  notes,  full  of  bird-song* and  the  happy  hum 
of  insect  life  and  rustling  of  netted  branches  and  waving 
of  long  tasselled  grass.  I  know  of  nothing  like  it  save 
the  forest  music  in  Siegfried. 

The  sick  king  listens,  and  remembers  words  of  hope 
and  comfort  that  fell  from  a  heavenly  voice,  what  time 
the  glory  of  the  Grail  passed — 

"  Dnrck  mitleid  Yv'issend  "Wait  for  my  chosen  one, 

Der  reine  Thor,  „    .,  , 

Guileless  and  innocent, 
Harre  sein 

Den  icli  erkor."  Tity-enlightened." 

They  hand  him  the  phial    of   balsam  ;    and   presently, 


206  MY   MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

while  the  lovely  forest  music  again  breaks  forth,  the 
king  is  carried  on  to  his  bath,  and  Kundry,  Gurnemanz, 
and  the  two  esquires  hold  the  stage. 

As  the  old  knight,  who  is  a  complete  repertory  of 
facts  connected  with  the  Grail  tradition,  unfolds  to  the 
esquires  the  nature  of  the  king's  wound,  the  sorceries  of 
Klingsor,  the  hope  of  deliverance  from  some  unknown 
"  guileless  one,"  a  sudden  cry  breaks  up  the  situation. 

A  white  swan,  pierced  by  an  arrow,  flutters  dying  to 
the  ground.  It  is  the  swan  beloved  of  the  Grail  brother- 
hood, bird  of  fair  omen,  symbol  of  spotless  purity.  The 
slayer  is  brought  in  between  two  knights — a  stalwart 
youth,  fearless,  unabashed,  while  the  death-music  of  the 
swan,  the  slow  distilling  and  stiffening  of  its  life-blood, 
is  marvellously  rendered  by  the  orchestra.  Conviction 
of  his  fault  comes  over  the  youth  as  he  listens  to  the  re- 
proaches of  Gurnemanz.  He  hangs  his  head,  ashamed 
and  penitent,  and  at  last  with  a  sudden  passion  of 
remorse  snaps  his  bow,  and  flings  it  aside.  The  swan  is 
borne  off,  and  Parsifal  (the  "guileless  one,""  for  he  it 
is),  with  Gurnemanz  and  Kundry — who  rouses  herself 
and  surveys  Parsifal-  with  strange,  almost  savage  curios- 
ity— hold  the  stage. 

In  this  scene  Kundry  tells  the  youth  more  than  he 
cares  to  hear  about  himself :  how  his  father,  Gamuret, 
was  a  great  knight  killed  in  battle  ;  how  his  mother, 
Herzeleide  (Heart's  Affliction),  fearing  a  like  fate  for  her 
son,  brought  him  up  in  the  lonely  forest  ;  how  he  left 
her  to  follow  a  troop  of  knights  that  he  met  one  day 
winding  through  the  forest  glade,  and  being  led  on  and 
on  in  pursuit  of  them,  never  overtook  them  and  never 
returned  to  his  mother,  Heart's  Affliction,  who  died  of 
grief.  At  this  point  the  frantic  youth  seizes  Kundry  by 
the  throat  in  an  agony  of  rage  and  grief,  but  is  held 


SUNDRY'S  SLEEP.  207 

back  by  Gurnemanz,  till,  worn  out  by  the  violence  of 
his  emotion,  he  faints  away,  and  is  gradually  revived  by 
Kundry  and  Gurnemanz. 

Suddenly  Kundry  rises  with  a  wild  look,  like  one 
under  a  spell.  Her  mood  of  service  is  over.  She  staggers 
across  the  stage — she  can  hardly  keep  awake.  ' (  Sleep, ' ' 
she  mutters,  "  I  must  sleep — sleep  !"  and  falls  down  in 
one  of  those  long  trances  which  apparently  lasted  for 
months,  or  years,  and  formed  the  transition  periods 
between  her  mood  of  Grail  service  and  the  Klingsor 
slavery  into  which  she  must  next  relapse  in  spite  of  her- 
self. 

And  is  this  the  guileless  one  ?  This  wild  youth  who 
slays  the  fair  swan — who  knows  not  his  own  name  nor 
whence  he  comes,  nor  whither  he  goes,  nor  what  are  his 
destinies  ?  The  old  knight  eyes  him  curiously — he  will 
put  him  to  the  test.  This  youth  had  seen  the  king  pass 
once — he  had  marked  his  pain.  Was  he  "  enlightened  by 
pity  ''?  Is  he  the  appointed  deliverer  ?  The  old  knight 
now  invites  him  to  the  shrine  of  the  Grail.  "  What  is 
the  Grail  ?13  asks  the  youth.  Truly  a  guileless,  innocent 
one  !  yet  a  brave  and  pure  knight,  since  he  has  known 
no  evil,  and  so  readily  repents  of  a  fault  committed  in 
ignorance. 

Gurnemanz  is  strangely  drawn  to  him.  lie  shall  see 
the  Grail,  and  in  the  Holy  Palace,  what  time  the  mystic 
light  streams  forth  and  the  assembled  knights  bow  them- 
selves in  prayer,  the  voice  which  comforted  Amfortis 
shall  speak  to  his  deliverer  and  bid  him  arise  and  heal  the 

king. 

****** 

Gurnemanz  and  Parsifal  have  ceased  to  speak.  They 
stand  in  the  glowing  light  of  the  summer-land.  The 


208  MY   MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

tide  of  music  rolls  on  continuously,   but  sounds  more 
strange  and  dreamy. 

*#•*##•* 

Is  it  a  cloud  passing  over  the  sky  ?  There  seems  to 
be  a  shuddering  in  the  branches — the  light  fades  upon 
yonder  s tinny  woodlands — the  foreground  darkens  apace. 
The  whole  scene  is  moving,  but  so  slowly  that  it  seems 
to  change  like  a  dissolving  view.  I  see  the  two  figures 
of  Gurnemanz  and  Parsifal  moving  through  the  trees — 
they  are  lost  behind  yonder  rock.  They  emerge  farther 
off — higher  up.  The  air  grows  very  dim  ;  the  orchestra 
peals  louder  and  louder.  I  lose  the  two  in  the  deepen- 
ing twilight.  The  forest  is  changing,  the  land  is  wild 
and  mountainous.  Huge  galleries  and  arcades,  rock- 
hewn,  loom  through  the  dim  forest  ;  but  all  is  growing 
dark.  I  listen  to  the  murmurs  of  the  "  Grail,"  the 
"  Spear,"  the  "  Pain,"  the  "  Love  and  Faith"  motives- 
hollow  murmurs,  confused,  floating  out  of  the  depths  of 
lonely  caves.  Then  I  have  a  feeling  of  void  and  dark- 
ness, and  there  comes  a  sighing  as  of  a  soul  swooning 
away  in  a  trance,  and  a  vision  of  waste  places  and  wild 
caverns  ;  and  then  through  the  confused  dream  I  hear 
the  solemn  boom  of  mighty  bells,  only  muffled.  They 
keep  time  as  to  some  ghostly  march.  I  strain  my  eyes 
into  the  thick  gloom  before  me.  Is  it  a  rock,  or  forest, 
or  palace  ? 

As  the  light  returns  slowly,  a  hall  of  more  than 
Alhambra-like  splendor  opens  before  me.  My  eyes  are 
riveted  on  the  shining  pillars  of  variegated  marble,  the 
tessellated  pavements,  the  vaulted  roof  glowing  with 
gold  and  color  ;  beyond,  arcades  of  agate  columns, 
bathed  in  a  misty  moonlight  air,  and  lost  in  a  bewildering 
perspective  of  halls  and  corridors. 

I  hoar  the  falling  of  distant  water  in  marble  fonts  ; 


THE   HOLY   GRAIL.  209 

the  large  bells  of  Hontsalvat  peal  louder  and  louder,  and 
to  music  of  unimaginable  stateliness  the  knights  enter  in 
solemn  procession,  clad  in  the  blue  and  red  robes  of  the 
Grail,  and  take  their  seats  at  two  semicircular  tables 
which  start  like  arms  to  the  right  and  left  of  the  holy 
shrine.  Beneath  it  lies  Titurel  entranced,  and  upon  it  is 
presently  deposited  the  sacred  treasure  of  the  Grail 
itself. 

As  the  wounded  King  Amfortis  is  borne  in,  the  as- 
sembled knights,  each  standing  in  his  place,  a  golden 
cup  before  him,  intone  the  Grail  motive,  which  is 
taken  up  by  the  entering  choruses  of  servitors  and 
esquires  bearing  the  holy  relics. 

Gurnemanz  is  seated  among  the  knights  ;  Parsifal 
stands  aside  and  looks  on  in  mute  astonishment,  "a 
guileless  one." 

As  the  Holy  Grail  is  set  down  on  the  altar  before  the 
wounded  king,  a  burst  of  heavenly  music  streams  from 
the  high  dome — voices  of  angels  intone  the  celestial 
phrases,  "  Take,  eat,"  and  "  this  is  my  blood!"  and 
blend  them  with  the  "faith  and  love"  motives.  As 
the  choruses  die  away,  the  voice  of  the  entranced  Titurel 
is  heard  from  beneath  the  altar  calling  upon  Amfortis, 
his  son,  to  uncover  the  Grail  that  he  may  find  refresh- 
ment and  life  in  the  blessed  vision. 

Then  follows  a  terrible  struggle  in  the  breast  of  Am- 
fortis. //«?,  sore  stricken  in  sin,  yet  Guardian  of  the 
Grail,  guilty  among  the  guiltless,  oppressed  with  pain, 
bowed  down  with  shame,  craving  for  restoration, 
overwhelmed  with  unworthiness,  yet  chosen  to  stand  and 
minister  before  the  Lord  on  behalf  of  His  saints  ! 
Pathetic  situation,  which  must  in  all  times  repeat  itself 
in  the  history  of  the  Church.  The  unworthiness  of  the 
minister  affects  not  the  validity  of  his  consecrated  acts. 


210  MY   MUSICAL   MEA1OIUES. 

Yet  what  agony  of  mind  must  many  a  priest  have 
suffered,  himself  oppressed  with  sin  and  doubt,  while 
dispensing  the  means  of  grace,  and  acting  as  a  minister 
and  steward  of  the  mysteries. 

The  marvellous  piece  of  self-analysis  in  which  the 
conscience-stricken  king  bewails  his  lot  as  little  admits  of 
description  here  as  the  music  which  embodies  his  emo- 
tions. 

At  the  close  of  it  angel  voices  seem  floating  in  mid-air, 
sighing  the  mystic  words  : 

"  Durch  mitleid  Wissend  "  Wait  for  my  chosen  one, 

Der  reine  Thor,  Guileless  and  innocent, 

Harre  sein 

Den  ich  erkor."  pitJ-  enlightened.  " 


And  immediately  afterward  the  voice  of  Titurel,  like 
one  turning  restlessly  in  his  sleep,  comes  up  from  his 
living  tomb  beneath  the  altar,  'k  Uncover  the  Grail  /" 

With  trembling  hands  the  sick  king  raites  himself, 
and  with  a  great  effort  staggers  toward  the  shrine  —  the 
covering  is  removed  —  he  takes  the  crystal  cup  —  he  raises 
it  on  high  —  the  blood  is  dark  —  the  light  begins  to  fade 
in  the  hall  —  a  mist  and  dimness  come  over  the  scene— 
we  seem  to  be  assisting  at  a  shadowy  ceremony  in  a 
dream  —  the  big  bells  are  tolling  —  the  heavenly  choirs 
from  above  the  dome,  which  is  now  bathed  in  twilight, 
are  heard  :  "  Drink  ye  all  of  this  /"  Amfortis  raises 
on  high  the  crystal  vase  —  the  knights  fall  on  their  knees 
in  prayer.  Suddenly  a  faint  tremor  of  light  quivers  in 
the  crystal  cup  —  then  the  blood  grows  ruby  red  for  a 
moment.  Amfortis  waves  it  to  and  fro  —  the  knights 
gaze  in  ecstatic  adoration.  Titurel's  voice  gathers 
strength  in  his  tomb  : 

"  Celestial  rapture  ! 
How  stromms  the  light  upon  the  face  of  God  !" 


THE   SPIRITUAL  IMPRESSION.  211 

The  light  fades  slowly  out  of  the  crystal  cup — the  mira- 
cle is  accomplished.  The  blood  again  grows  dark — the 
light  of  common  day  returns  to  the  halls  of  Montsalvat, 
and  the  knights  resume  their  seats,  to  iind  each  one  his 
golden  goblet  filled  with  wine. 

During  the  sacred  repast  which  follows,  the  brother- 
hood join  hands  and  embrace,  singing  : 

"  Blessed  are  they  that  believe  ; 
Blessed  are  they  that  love  !" 

and  the  refrain  is  heard  again  far  up  in  the  heights,  re- 
echoed by  the  angelic  hosts. 

****** 

I  looked  round  upon  the  silent  audience  while  these 
astonishing  scenes  were  passing  before  me  ;  the  whole 
assembly  was  motionless — all  seemed  to  be  solemnized 
by  the  august  spectacle — seemed  almost  to  share  in  the 
devout  contemplation  and  trance-like  worship  of  the 
holy  knights.  Every  thought  of  the  stage  had  vanished 
— nothing  was  further  from  my  own  thoughts  than  play- 
acting. I  was  sitting  as  I  should  sit  at  an  oratorio,  in 
devout  and  rapt  contemplation.  Before  my  eyes  had 
passed  a  symbolic  vision  of  prayer  and  ecstasy,  flooding 
the  soul  with  overpowering  thoughts  of  the  divine  sacri- 
fice and  the  mystery  of  unfathomable  love. 

****** 

The  hall  of  Montsalvat  empties.  Gurnemanz  strides 
excitedly  up  to  Parsifal,  who  stands  stupefied  with  what 
he  has  seen — 

"  Why  standest  thon  silent  ? 

Knowest  them  what  thine  eyes  have  seen  ?" 

The  guileless  one  shakes  his  head.  "  Nothing  but  a 
fool,"  exclaims  Gurnemanz,  angrily  ;  and  seizing  Parsi- 


212  MY   MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

fal  by  tlie  shoulder,  he  pushes  him  roughly  out  of  the 
hall,  with  : 

"  Bo  off  !  look  after  thy  geese, 
And  henceforth  leave  our  swans  in  peace." 

The  Grail  vision  had,  then,  taught  the  "  guileless 
one  "  nothing.  He  could  not  see  his  mission — he  was 
as  yet  unawakened  to  the  deeper  life  of  the  spirit  ; 
though  blameless  and  unsullied,  he  was  still  the  "  nat- 
ural man."  Profound  truth!  that  was  not  first  which 
was  spiritual,  but  that  which  was  natural  ;  before  Parsifal 
wins  a  spiritual  triumph,  he  must  be  spiritually  tried  ;  his 
inner  life  must  be  deepened  and  developed,  else  he  can 
never  read  aright  the  message  of  the  Grail. 

The  life  of  God  in  the  spirit  comes  only  when  the 
battle  for  God  in  the  heart  has  been  fought  and  won. 

Fare  forth,  thou  guileless  one  !  thou  shalt  yet  add 
to  the  simplicity  of  the  dove  the  wisdom  of  the  ser- 
pent. Thou  art  innocent  because  ignorant  ;  but  thou 
shalt  be  weighed  anon  in  the  balance  and  not  be  found 
wanting  ;  and  then  shalt  thou  reconquer  the  holy  spear 
lost  in  Sin,  rewon  in  Purity  and  Sacrifice,  and  be  to  the 
frail  Amfortis  the  chosen  saviour  for  whom  he  waits. 
****** 

The  foregoing  events  occupied  about  an  hour  and  a 
quarter.  When  the  curtain  fell,  the  vast  audience  broke 
up  in  silence. 

The  air  outside  was  cool  and  balmy.  In  the  distance 
lay  the  city  of  Bayreuth,  with  the  tower  of  the  Alte 
Schloss  and  the  old  church  standing  up  gray  against  the 
distant  Bavarian  hills.  All  around  us  lay  the  pine 
woods,  broken  by  the  lawns  and  avenues  that  encircle 
the  theatre  and  embower  it  in  a  secluded  world  of  its  own 
— even  as  the  Palace  of  the  Grail  was  shut  off  from  the 


KLINGSOR   PRELUDE.  213 

profane  world.  Here,  indeed,  is  truly  the  Montsalvat 
of  the  modern  drama — a  spot  purified  and  sacred  to  the 
highest  aims  and  noblest  manifestations  of  Art. 

In  about  an  hour  the  Spear  motive  was  the  signal 
blown  on  the  wind  instruments  outside,  and  1  took  mj 
seat  for  the  second  act. 


ACT  II. 

A  restless,  passion- tossed  prelude.  The  "Grail" 
subject  distorted,  the  "  Spear"  motive  thrust  in  discord- 
ant, the  "  Faith  and  Love"  theme  fluttering  like  a 
wounded  dove  in  pain,  fierce  bursts  of  passion,  wild 
shocks  of  uncontrolled  misery,  mingling  with  the 
"carnal  joy"  music  of  Klingsor's  magic  garden  and 
the  shuddering  might  of  his  alchemy. 

The  great  magician,  Klingsor,  is  seen  alone  in  his 
dungeon  palace — harsh  contrast  to  the  gorgeous  halls  of 
Montsalvat.  Here  all  is  built  of  the  live  rock,  an  im- 
penetrable fastness,  the  home  of  devilish  might  and 
terrible  spells. 

Klingsor  is  aware  of  the  coming  struggle,  and  he  means 
to  be  ready  for  it.  He  owns  the  sacred  spear  wrested 
from  Amfortis  ;  he  even  aspires  to  win  the  Grail  ;  he 
knows  the  "  guileless  one"  is  on  his  way  to  wrest  that 
spear  from  him.  His  only  hope  is  in  paralyzing  the  fool 
by  his  enchantments  as  he  paralyzed  Amfortis,  and  the 
same  woman  will  serve  his  turn. 

"  Kundry  !"  The  time  is  come,  the  spells  are  woven 
— blue  vapors  rise,  and  in  the  midst  of  the  "blue  vapors 
the  figure  of  the  still  sleeping  Kundry  is  seen.  She 
wakes,  trembling  violently  ;  she  knows  she  is  again 
under  the  spell  she  abhors — the  spell  to  do  evil,  the  mis- 
sion to  corrupt.  With  a  shuddering  scream  she  stands 


214  31 Y    MUSICAL    MEM.ORIK3. 

before  her  tormentor,  denying  Ms  power,  loathing  to 
return  to  her  vile  mission,  yet  returning,  as  with  a  bitter 
cry  she  vanishes  from  his  presence. 

Parsifal  has  invaded  Klingsor's  realm ;  the  evil 
knights  have  fled  before  his  prowess,  wounded  and  in 
disorder.  Kundry  is  commissioned  to  meet  the  guileless 
youth  in  the  enchanted  garden  and,  all  other  allurements 
failing,  to  subdue  him  by  her  irresistible  fascinations  and 
hand  him  over  to  Klingsor. 

Iii  a  moment  the  scenery  lifts,  and  a  garden  of  mar- 
vellous beauty  and  extent  lies  before  us.  The  flowers  are 
all  of  colossal  dimensions — huge  roses  hang  in  tangled 
festoons,  the  cactus,  the  lily,  the  blue-bell,  creepers  and 
orchids  of  enormous  size  and  dazzling  color  wave  in 
mid-air,  and  climb  the  aromatic  trees. 

On  a  bright  hill  appears  Parsifal,  standing  bewildered 
by  the  light  and  loveliness  around  him.  Beautiful  girls 
dressed  like  flowers,  and  hardly  distinguishable  from 
them  at  first,  rush  in,  bewailing  their  wounded  and  dis- 
abled knights,  but,  on  seeing  Parsifal,  fall  upon  their 
new  prey,  and  surrounding  him,  sing  verse  after  verse 
of  the  loveliest  ballet  music,  while  trying  to  embrace 
him,  and  quarrelling  with  each  other  for  the  privilege. 

About  that  wonderful  chorus  of  flower-girls  there  was 
just  a  suggestive  touch  of  the  Rhine  maidens'  singing. 
It  belonged  to  the  same  school  of  thought  and  feeling, 
but  was  freer,  wilder — more  considerable,  and  altogether 
more  complex  and  wonderful  in  its  changes  and  in  the 
marvellous  confusion  in  which  it  breaks  up. 

The  guileless  one  resists  these  charmers,  and  they  are 
just  about  to  leave  him  in  disgust,  when  the  roses  lift  on 
one  side,  and,  stretched  on  a  mossy  bank  overhung  with 
flowers,  appears  a  woman  of  unearthly  loveliness.  It  is 
Kundry  transformed,  and  in  the  marvellous  duet  which 


THE    XEW    LOVE    DUET. — AX    ANALYSIS.  215 

follows  between  her  and  Parsifal,  a  perfectly  new  and 
original  type  of  love  duet  is  struck  out — an  analysis  of 
character,  unique  in  musical  drama — a  combination  of 
sentiment  and  a  situation  absolutely  novel,  which  could 
only  have  been  conceived  and  carried  out  by  a  creative 
genius  of  the  highest  order. 

First,  I  note  that  the  once  spell-bound  Kundry  is  de- 
voted utterly  to  her  task  of  winning  Parsifal.     Into  this 
she  throws  all  the  intensity  of  her  wild  and  desperate 
nature  ;    but  in  turn  she    is  strangely  affected  by  the 
spiritual  atmosphere  of  the  "  guileless  one  " — a  feeling 
comes  over  her  in  the  midst  of  her  witchcraft  passion, 
that  he  is   in   some  way   to   be  her  saviour   too  ;  yet, 
woman-like,   she  conceives  of  her  salvation  as  possible 
only  in  union  with  him.     Yet  was  this  the  very  crime  to 
which  Klingsor  would  drive  her  for  the  ruin  of  Parsifal. 
Strange  confusion  of  thought,  feeling,  aspiration,  long- 
ing ! — struggle  of  irreconcilable  elements  !     How  shall 
she  reconcile  them  ?     Her  intuition  fails  her  not,  and 
her  tact  triumphs.     She  will  win  by  stealing  his  love 
through  his  mother's  love.      A  mother's  love  is  holy ; 
that  love"  she  tells  him  of.    It  can  never  more  be  his  ; 
but  she  will  replace  it,  her  passion  shall  be  sanctified  by 
it ;  through  that  passion  she  has  sinned,  through  it  she, 
too,  shall  be  redeemed.     She  will  work  out  her  own  sal- 
vation by  the  very  spells  that  are  upon  her  for  evil.     He 
is  pure — he  shall  make  her  pure,  can  she  but  win  him  ; 
both,  by   the   might  of  such  pure   love,  will   surely  be 
delivered  from  Klingsor  the  corrupter,  the  tormentor. 
Fatuous  dream  !     How,  through  corruption,  win  incor- 
ruption  ?     How,    through   indulgence,    win    peace   and 
freedom  from  desire  ?     It  is  the  old  cheat  of  the  senses 
— Satan  appears  as  an  angel  of  light.     The  thought  de- 
ludes the  unhappy  Ivundry  herself  ;  she  is  no  longer  con- 


#10  MY    MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

sciously  working  for  Klingsor  ;  she  really  believes  that 
this  new  turn,  this  bias  given  to  passion,  will  purify 
both  her  and  the  guileless,  pure  fool  she  seeks  to 
subdue. 

Nothing  can  describe  the  subtlety  of  their  long  inter- 
view, the  surprising  turns  of  sentiment  and  contrasts  of 
feeling.  Throughout  this  scene  Parsifal's  instinct  is 
absolutely  true  and  sure.  Everything  Kundry  says 
about  his  mother,  Herzeleide,  he  feels  ;  but  every  at- 
tempt to  make  him  accept  her  instead  he  resists.  Her 
desperate  declamation  is  splendid.  Her  heartrending 
sense  of  misery  and  piteous  prayer  for  salvation,  her 
belief  that  before  her  is  her  saviour  could  she  but  win 
him  to  her  will,  the  choking  fury  of  baffled  passion,  the 
steady  and  subtle  encroachments  made  while  Parsifal  is 
lost  in  a  meditative  dream,  the  burning  kiss  which  recalls 
him  to  himself,  the  fine  touch  by  which  this  kiss,  while 
arousing  in  him  the  stormiest  feelings,  causes  a  sharp 
pain,  as  of  Amfortis's  own  wound,  piercing  his  very 
heart — all  this  is  realistic  if  you  will,  but  it  is  realism 
raised  to  the  sublime. 

Suddenly  Parsifal  springs  up,  hurls  the  -enchantress 
from  him,  will  forth  from  Klingsor's  realm.  She  is 
baffled — she  knows  it  ;  for  a  moment  she  bars  his  pas- 
sage, then  succumbs  ;  the  might  of  sensuality  which  lost 
Amfortis  the  sacred  spear  has  been  met  and  defeated 
by  the  guileless  fool.  He  has  passed  from  innocence  to 
knowledge  in  his  interview  with  the  flower-girt  girls, 
in  his  long  converse  with  Kundry,  in  her  insidious  em- 
brace, in  her  kiss  ;  but  all  these  are  now  thrust  aside, 
he  steps  forth  still  unconquered,  still  "  guileless,"  but 
no  more  "a  fool."  The  knowledge  of  good  and  evil 
has  come,  but  the  struggle  is  already  passed. 

"  Yes,  sinner,  I  do  offer  thee  Redemption,"  he  can 


KUNDRY   BAFFLED.  217 

say  to  Kundry  ;  "  not  in  thy  way,    but  in  thy  Lord 
Christ's  way  of  sacrifice  !" 

But  the  desperate  creature,  wild  with  passion,  will 
listen  to  no  reason  ;  she  shouts  aloud  to  her  master,  and 
Klingsor  suddenly  appears,  poising  the  sacred  spear. 
In  another  moment  he  hurls  it  right  across  the  enchanted 
garden  at  Parsifal.  It  cannot  wound  the  guileless  and 
pure  one  as  it  wounded  the  sinful  Amfortis.  A  mira- 
cle !  It  hangs  arrested  in  air  above  Parsifal's  head  ;  he 
seizes  it — it  is  the  sacred  talisman,  one  touch  of  which 
will  heal  even  as  it  inflicted  the  king's  deadly  wound. 

With  a  mighty  cry  and  the  shock  as  of  an  earthquake, 
the  castle  of  Klingsor  falls  shattered  to  pieces,  the  gar- 
den withers  up  to  a  desert,  the  girls,  who  have  rushed  in, 
lie  about  among  the  fading  flowers,  themselves  withered 
up  and  dead.  Kundry  sinks  down  in  a  deathly  swoon, 
while  Parsifal  steps  over  a  ruined  wall  and  disappears, 
painting  her  with  the  words  :  "  Thou  alone  knowest 
when  we  shall  meet  again  !" 

****** 

The  long  shadows  were  stealing  over  the  hills  when  I 
came  out  at  the  second  pause.  Those  whom  I  met  and 
conversed  with  were  subdued  and  awed.  What  a 
solemn  tragedy  of  human  passion  we  had  been  assisting 
at  !  Not  a  heart  there  but  could  interpret  that  struggle 
between  the  flesh  and  the  spirit  from  its  own  experiences. 
Not  one  but  knew  the  desperately  wicked  and  deceitful 
temptations  that  come  like  enchantresses  in  the  wizard's 
garden,  to  plead  the  cause  of  the  devil  in  the  language 
of  high-flown  sentiment  or  even  religious  feeling. 

Praise  and  criticism  seemed  dumb  ;  we  rather  walked 
and  spoke  of  what  we  had  just  witnessed  like  men  con- 
vinced of  judgment,  and  righteousness,  and  sin.  It  was 
a  strange  mood  in  which  to  come  out  of  a  theatre  after 


218  MY    MUSICAL    MEMORIES. 

witnessing  what  would  commonly  be  called  an  "  Opera." 
I  felt  more  than  ever  the  impossibility  of  producing 
the  Parsifal  in  London,  at  Drury  Lane  or  Covent  Gar- 
den, before  a  well-dressed  company  of  loungers,  who 
had  well  dined,  and  were  on  their  way  to  balls  and  sup- 
pers afterward. 

I  would  as  soon  see  the  Oberammergau  play  at  a 
music  hall. 

No;  in  Parsifal  all  is  solemn,  or  all  is  irreverent.  At 
Bayreuth  we  came  on  a  pilgrimage  ;  it  cost  us  time,  and 
trouble,  and  money  ;  we  were  in  earnest — so  were  the 
actors  ;  the  spirit  of  the  great  master  who  had  planned 
every  detail  seemed  still  to  preside  over  all  ;  the  actors 
lived  in  their  parts  ;  not  a  thought  of  self  remained  ;  no 
one  accepted  applause  or  recall  ;  no  one  aimed  at  pro- 
ducing a  personal  effect  ;  the  actors  were  lost  in  the 
drama,  and  it  was  the  drama  and  not  the  actors  which 
had  impressed  and  solemnized  us.  When  I  came  out 
they  asked  me  who  was  Amfortis  ?  I  did  not  know.  I 
said  "  the  wounded  king." 

As  the  instruments  played  out  the  Faith  and  Love 
motive  for  us  to  re-enter,  the  mellow  sunshine  broke 
once  more  from  the  cloud-rack  over  city,  and  field,  and 
forest,  before  sinking  behind  the  long  low  range  of  the 
distant  hills. 

ACT  III. 

The  opening  prelude  to  the  third  and  last  act  seems 
to  warn  me  of  the  lapse  of  time.  The  music  is  full  of 
pain  and  restlessness — the  pain  of  wretched  years  of  long 
waiting  for  a  deliverer,  whd  comes  not  ;  the  restlessness 
and  misery  of  a  hope  deferred,  the  weariness  of  a  life 
without  a  single  joy.  The  motives,  discolored  as  it  were 


WAKING    OF    KUNDRY.  219 

by  grief,  work  up  to  a  distorted  version  of  the  Grail 
subject,  which  breaks  off  as  with  a  cry  of  despair. 

Is  the  Grail,  too,  then  turned  into  a  mocking  spirit  to 
the  unhappy  Amfortis  ? 

Belief  comes  to  us  with  the  lovely  scene  upon  which 
the  curtain  rises.  Again  the  wide  summer-land  lies 
stretching  away  over  sunlit  moor  and  woodland.  In  the 
foreground  wave  the  forest  trees,  and  I  hear  the  ripple 
of  the  woodland  streams.  Invariably  throughout  the 
drama,  in  the  midst  of  all  human  pain  and  passion,  great 
nature  is  there,  peaceful,  harmonious  in  all  her  loveliest 
moods,  a  paradise  in  which  dwell  souls  who  make  of  her 
their  own  purgatory. 

In  yonder  aged  figure,  clad  in  the  Grail  pilgrim  robe, 
I  discern  Gurnemanz  ;  his  hair  is  white  ;  he  stoops  with 
years  ;  a  rude  hut  is  hard  by.  Presently  a  groan  arrests 
his  attention,  moaning  as  of  a  human  thing  in  distress. 
He  clears  away  some  brushwood,  and  beneath  it  finds, 
waking  from  her  long  trance,  the  strange  figure  of  Kun- 
dry.  For  how  many  years  she  has  slept,  we  know  not. 
Why  is  she  now  recalled  to  life  ?  She  staggers  to  her 
feet  ;  we  see  that  she  too  is  in  a  pilgrim  garb,  with  a 
rope  girding  her  dress  of  coarse  brown  serge.  "  Ser- 
vice !  service  !"  she  mutters,  and  seizing  a  pitcher, 
moves  mechanically  to  fill  it  at  the  well,  then  totters  but 
half  awake  into  the  wooden  hut.  The  forest  music  breaks 
forth — the  hum  of  happy  insect  life,  the  song  of  wild 
birds.  All  seems  to  pass  as  in  a  vision  ;  when  suddenly 
enters  a  knight  clad  in  black  armor  from  top  to  toe. 

The  two  eye  him  curiously,  and  Gurnemanz,  ap- 
proaching, bids  him  lay  aside  his  armor  and  his  weapons. 
He  carries  a  long  spear.  In  silence  the  knight  unhelms, 
and  sticking  the  spear  into  the  ground,  kneels  before 
it,  and  remains  lost  in  devotional  contemplation.  The 


220  MY   MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

"  Spear"  and  "  Grail  "  motives  mingle  together  in  the 
full  tide  of  orchestral  sounds  carrying  on  the  emotional 
undercurrent  of  the  drama.  The  knight  is  soon  recog- 
nized by  both  as  the  long-lost  and  discarded  Parsifal. 

The  "guileless  one"  has  learned  wisdom,  and  dis- 
covered his  mission — he  knows  now  that  he  bears  the 
spear  which  is  to  heal  the  king's  grievous  wound,  and 
that  he  himself  is  appointed  his  successor.  Through 
long  strife  and  trial  and  pain  he  seems  to  have  grown 
into  something  of  Christ's  own  likeness.  Not  all  at 
once,  but  at  last  he  has  found  the  path.  He  returns  to 
bear  salvation  and  pardon  both  to  Kundry  and  the 
wretched  king,  Amfortis. 

The  full  music  flows  on  while  Gurnemanz  relates  how 
the  knights  have  all  grown  weak  and  aged,  deprived  of 
the  vision  and  sustenance  of  the  Holy  Grail,  while  the 
long-entranced  Titurel  is  at  last  dead. 

At  this  news  Parsifal,  overcome  with  grief,  swoons 
away,  and  Gurnemanz  and  Kundry  loosen  his  armor, 
and  sprinkle  him  with  water  from  the  holy  spring. 
Underneath  his  black  suit  of  mail  he  appears  clad  in  a 
long  white  tunic. 

The  grouping  here  is  admirable.  Gurnemanx;  is  in  the 
Templar's  red  and  blue  robe.  Parsifal  in  white,  his 
auburn  hair  parted  in  front  and  flowing  down  in  ring- 
lets on  either  side,  recalls  Leonardo's  favorite  conception 
of  the  Saviour's  head,  and,  indeed,  from  this  point 
Parsifal  becomes  a  kind  of  symbolic  reflection  of  the 
Lord  Himself.  Kundry,  subdued  and  awed,  lies  weep- 
ing at  his  feet  ;  he  lifts  his  hands  to  bless  her  with  in- 
finite pity.  She  washes  his  feet,  and  dries  them  with 
the  hairs  of  her  head.  It  is  a  bold  stroke,  but  the  voices 
of  nature,  the  murmur  of  the  summer  woods,  come 
with  an  infinite  healing  tenderness  and  pity,  and  the  act 


THE   KISS   OF   PEACE.  221 

is  seen  to  be  symbolical  of  the  pure  devotion  of  a  sinful 
creature  redeemed  from  sin.  Peace  has  at  last  entered 
into  that  wild  and  troubled  heart,  and  restless  Kundry, 
delivered  from  Klingsor's  spell,  receives  the  sprinkling 
of  baptismal  water  at  the  hands  of  Parsifal. 


The  great  spaces  of  silence  in  the  dialogue,  broken 
now  by  a  few  sentences  from  Parsifal,  now  from  Gurne- 
manz,  are  more  eloquent  than  many  words.  The  tidal 
music  flows  on  in  a  ceaseless  stream  of  changing  har- 
monies, returning  constantly  to  the  sweet  and  slumbrous 
sound  of  the  summer-land,  full  of  teeming  life  and  glow- 
ing happiness. 

Then  Gurnemanz  takes  up  his  parable.  It  is  the 
Blessed  Good  Friday  on  which  our  dear  Lord  suffered. 
The  Love  and  Faith  phrases  are  chimed  forth,  the  pain- 
notes  of  the  Cross  agony  are  sounded  and  pass,  the  Grail 
motive  seems  to  swoon  away  in  descending  harmonies, 
sinking  into  the  woodland  voices  of  universal  nature — 
that  trespass-pardoned  nature  that  now  seems  waking  to 
the  day  of  her  glory  and  innocence. 

In  that  solemn  moment  Parsifal  bends  over  the  sub- 
dued and  humbled  Kundry,  and  kisses  her  softly  on  the 
brow — her  wild  kiss  in  the  garden  had  kindled  in  him 
fierce  fire,  mingled  with  the  bitter  wound-pain  ;  his  is 
the  seal  of  her  eternal  pardon  and  peace. 

In  the  distance  the  great  bells  of  Montsalvat  are  now 
heard  booming  solemnly — the  air  darkens,  the  light 
fades  out,  the  slow  motion  of  all  the  scenery  recom- 
mences. Again  I  hear  the  wild  cave  music,  strange  and 
hollow  sounding — the  three  move  on  as  in  a  dream,  and 
are  soon  lost  in  the  deep  shadows  ;  and  through  all, 
louder  and  louder,  boom  the  heavy  bells  of  Montsalvat, 


222  MY   MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

until  the  stage  brightens,  and  we  find  ourselves  once 
more  in  the  vast  Alhambra-like  hall  of  the  knights. 

For  the  last  time  Amfortis  is  borne  in,  and  the  brother- 
hood of  the  Grail  form  the  procession  bearing  the  sacred 
relics,  which  are  deposited  before  him. 

The  king,  in  great  agony  and  despair,  bewails  the 
death  of  his  father  and  his  own  backsliding.  With  fail- 
ing but  desperate  energy  he  harangues  the  assembled 
knights,  and,  tottering  forward,  beseeches  them  to  free 
him  from  his  misery  and  sin-stained  life,  and  thrust  their 
swords  deep  into  his  wounded  side.  At  this  moment 
Gurnemanz,  accompanied  by  Parsifal  and  Knndry, 
enter.  Parsifal  steps  forward  with  the  sacred  spear, 
now  at  length  to  be  restored  to  the  knights.  He  touches 
the  side  of  Amfortis,  the  wound  is  healed,  and  as  he 
raises  the  spear  on  high  the  point  is  seen  glowing  with 
the  crimson  glory  of  the  Grail.  Then  stepping  up  to 
the  shrine,  Parsifal  takes  the  crystal  cup,  the  dark  blood 
glows  bright  crimson  as  he  holds  it  on  high,  and  at  that 
moment,  while  all  fall  on  their  knees,  and  celestial 
music  ("  Drink  ye  all  of  this  ")  floats  in  the  upper  air, 
Kimdry  falls  back  dying,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  blessed 
Grail.  A  white  dove  descends  and  hovers  for  a 
moment,  poised  in  mid-air  above  the  glowing  cup.  A 
soft  chorus  of  angels  seems  to  die  away  in  the  clouds 
beyond  the  golden  dome — 

"  Marvellous  mere}' ! 
Victorious  Saviour  !" 


Words  can  add  nothing  to  the  completeness  of  the 
drama,  and  no  words  can  give  any  idea  of  the  splendor 
and  complexity  of  that  sound  ocean  upon  which  the 
drama  floats  from  beginning  to  end. 


A   TOUCHING   INCIDENT.  223 

The  enemies  of  the  Grail  are  destroyed  or  subdued, 
the  wound  they  have  inflicted  is  healed,  the  prey  they 
claimed  is  rescued  ;  the  pure  and  blameless  Parsifal 
becomes  the  consecrated  head  of  the  holy  brotherhood, 
and  the  beatific  vision  of  God's  eternal  love  and  Real 
Presence  is  restored  to  the  Knights  of  the  Sangrail. 

*  \      «       *       *       *       * 

When  I  came  out  of  the  theatre  at  the  end  of  the 
third  and  last  act,  it  was  ten  o'clock. 

The  wind  was  stirring  in  the  fir-trees,  the  stars 
gleamed  out  fitfully  through  a  sky,  across  which  the 
clouds  were  hurrying  wildly,  but  the  moon  rose  low  and 
large  beyond  the  shadowy  hills,  and  bathed  the  misty 
valleys  with  a  mild  and  golden  radiance  as  of  some 
celestial  dawn. 


When  the  curtain  fell  on  the  last  performance  of 

lj  at  Bayreuth,  which,  on  the  30th  of  July,  1883, 
brought  the  celebration  month  to  a  close,  the  enthusiasm 
of  the  audience  found  full  vent  in  applause.  The  cur- 
tain was  once  lifted,  but  no  calls  would  induce  the  per- 
formers to  appear  a  second  time  or  receive  any  individ- 
ual homage.  This  is  entirely  in  accordance  with  the 
tone  of  these  exceptional  representations.  On  each  oc- 
casion the  only  applause  permitted  was  at  the  end  of  the 
drama,  and  throughout  not  a  single  actor  answered  to  a 
call  or  received  any  personal  tribute. 

Behind  the  'scenes  there  occurred  a  touching  incident. 
The  banker  Gross  led  Wagner's  children  up  to  the  as- 
sembled actors,  and  in  the  name  of  their  dead  father 
thanked  the  assembly  for  the  care  and  labor  of  love  ex- 
pended by  each  and  all  in  producing  the  last  work  of  the 
great  dead  master.  Siegfried,  Wagner's  son,  thirteen 


224  MY    MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 


years  old,  then,  in  a  few  simple  words,  stifled  with  sobs, 
thanked  the  actors  personally,  and  all  the  children  shook 
\    hands  with  them.     The  King  of  Bavaria  charged  him- 
self upon  Wagner's  death  with  the  education  of  his  son. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE  NIEBELUNG'S  RING. 

/. — Wieingold, 

THE  heat  at  Bayreuth  (August,  1876)  was  intense. 
The  Emperor  of  Germany,  who  attended  some  of  the 
performances,  expressed  his  astonishment  at  the  endur- 
ance of  the  orchestra,  who  had  to  work  by  a  great  power 
of  gas — sunk  in  a  pit  beneath  the  stage. 

"  I  should  just  like,"  said  his  Imperial  Majesty,  "  to 
go  down  below  and  see  where  my  Kapellmeister  Richter 
sweats' ' — and  lie  went. 

Notwithstanding  the  excessively  sultry  weather,  a  vast 
company  of  Art  Pilgrims  ascended  the  hill  outside  the 
city,  and  took  their  seats  in  "Wagner's  theatre  nearly 
every  day  for  a  month. 

Let  the  reader  become  with  me  in  imagination  one  of 
those  pilgrims.  If  I  cannot  make  the  sound  of  "Wag- 
ner's music  ring  in  his  ears,  I  will  try  to  make  a  vision 
of  the  first  Wagner  Festival  pass  before  his  eyes.  As  I 
contemplate  Bayreuth,  in  that  same  month  of  August, 
1876,  I  perceive  the  whole  city  to  be  given  over  to  a 
kind  of  idolatry  of  Wagner.  The  king  appears  at  times 
to  wave  incense  before  him.  Liszt,  in  some  degree, 
shares  the  homage.  "With  his  venerable  white  head,  he 
looks  like  an  ancient  magician,  but  with  an  eye  that  can 
still  flash  fire,  and  a  commanding  carriage.  The  town  is 
hung  with  wreaths  and  flags  ;  in  the  shops  nothing  but 


226  MY   MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

Wagner  portraits,  busts,  medals  of  all  sorts  and  sizes, 
Wagner's  works,  Wagner's  Life  and  Genius,  and  an  im- 
mense German  and  French  literature  on  the  Niebelungen 
Saga. 

The  performance  of  the  JRheingold  will  live  long  in 
my  memory,  as  the  extreme  realization  of  weird  beauty 
steeped  in  atmosphere  such  as  may  be  in  some  other 
planet,  flashed  with  sunset  or  moonrise.  This  music  is 
like  a  land  of  dreams,  into  which  the  spirit  breaks  at 
times,  and,  hurrying  back  a  million  of  years,  discovers, 
on  the  surface  of  far-off  seas,  or  dim  caverns,  the  light 
that  has  long  since  gone  out  forever.  The  elemental 
prelude  of  deep  and  slumbrous  sound  wafts  us  away 
from  all  account  of  time  and  space  of  the  present.  The 
vast  hall,  full  of  silent  human  beings,  has  been  touched 
by  the  magician's  wand.  All  grows  dark,  and  the  dim 
gray-green  depths  of  the  Rhine  alone  become  visible. 
We  strain  our  eyes  into  the  dimness,  and  are  aware  of 
the  deep  moving  of  the  Rhine  water.  The  three  Rhine 
daughters  grow  visible,  swimming  in  midwater,  swimming 
and  singing,  guardians  of  the  Rheingold.  What  un- 
earthly, unhuman,  magical  snatches  of  sweetest  song  ! 
There  is  at  last  realized  the  creature  of  legend,  the  Un- 
dine at  once  more  and  less  than  human. 

The  hideous  King  of  the  Undergrounds,  or  Niebelun- 
gen,  sits  watching  these  lovely  water-maidens — he  courts 
them  in  vain.  The  orchestra  weaves  on  its  divine  Rhine 
music,  without  which  we  almost  feel  the  scene  must 
vanish.  The  soft  cries  and  unearthly  but  musical  laugh- 
ter of  the  Undines,  swimming  ceaselessly,  begin  to  give 
us  a  strange  feeling  of  limited,  monotonous  life,  point- 
ing subtilely  to  the  difference  between  such  natures  and 
our  own.  But  they,  too,  are  waiting  for  something. 
This  dim  green  water  is  growing  oppressive.  We  feel 


SUBTLE   ART.  227 

ourselves  immersed  in  its  depths.  At  first  it  was  a 
dream  scene  of  exquisite  beauty — now  it  is  almost  a 
prison — in  another  moment  we  should  struggle  to  be 
free  ;  but  suddenly  the  Rkeingold  begins  to  brighten. 
A  shaft  of  radiance  strikes  through  the  water.  The 
Undines  scream  with  joy.  The  Underground  King, 
Alberich,  blinks  with  astonishment.  Then  through  the 
whole  depth  of  the  Rhine  streams  an  electric  light — 
glowing  upon  a  distant  rock — dimmed  to  softest  yellow 
only  by  the  water.  "  Rheingold  !  Rheingold  !"  a  wild 
shout  arises — joy  of  the  Rhine  daughters  !  Haydn  has 
produced  the  effect  of  light  in  the  Creation  by  a  great 
burst  of  sound,  "  And  there  was  Light  !  !"  But,  sub- 
lime as  is  that  one  chord  on  Light,  the  effect  here  is  far 
more  subtle.  "We  have  been  kept  in  dark  water  for  half 
an  hour.  The  whole  system  is  made  to  pine  and  cry  out 
for  light.  It  comes  at  last — the  light  of  the  flashing 
of  the  Rheingold  !  Every  fibre  in  the  body  quivers 
with  it.  It  is  as  oxygen  to  the  lungs.  The  eye  and 
whole  nervous  system  drink  it  in.  We  could  shout 
like  children  with  the  Rhine  girls  over  the  joy  of  the 
Rheingold  ! 

The  whole  of  this  water-scene  is  of  indescribable 
beauty,  and  without  a  trace  of  vulgar  pantomimic  effect. 
A  lesser  man  would  have  made  the  Rhine  water  lighter  at 
first.  As  it  is,  for  some  seconds  after  the  curtain  rises 
we  can  hardly  see  anything.  Slowly  the  eye  discerns 
the  floating  women  ;  but  we  still  follow  them  chiefly  by 
their  voices.  Alberich  is  hardly  visible  ;  the  music  it- 
self seems  to  keep  down  the  light  ;  but  then  the  dawn 
of  splendor  of  the  Rheingold  !  That  explains  all  ;  the 
effect  is  consummate.  Wagner,  it  is  evident,  has  super- 
intended every  detail  and  every  nuance.  I  can  under- 
stand now  his  bursting  into  tears  when  the  Rhine  ladies 


228  MY   MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

refused  to  enter  the  new  invisible  machines  which  were 
to  float  them  about  in  midwater. 

I  will  here  briefly  allude  to  the  plot  of  the  Itlieingold. 
How  Alberich,  the  King  of  the  Undergrounds,  re- 
nounces the  love  of  the  Rhine  girls  to  clutch  the  gold. 
How  he  leaves  the  Rhine  dark,  and  flies  with  his  treas- 
ure to  his  own  Underground  caverns,  there  to  maltreat 
his  wretched  hordes  of  slaves,  and  compel  them  to  turn 
the  Rheingold  into  sumptuous  vessels,  among  them  a 
magic  helmet  and  a  Ring  whose  wearer  can  change  him- 
self at  will  into  anything.  How  the  gods  meanwhile 
have  been  bribing  the  giants  with  the  promise  of  the 
beautiful  Freia,  their  sister,  to  build  them  their  Wal- 
halla  Palace.  How  the  giants  on  the  completion  of  the 
palace  claim  Freia,  and  only  give  her  up  upon  the  gods 
extorting  the  Rheingold  from  Alberich  and  his  Under- 
grounds and  paying  it  over  to  the  monstrous  architects. 
How  at  last  the  gods,  with  Freia,  go  over  the  Rainbow 
Bridge  into  the  Walhalla  to  the  sound  of  heavenly 
music,  while  upon  the  ambrosial  air  comes  from  afar 
the  fitful  wail  of  the  Rhine  Daughters  : 

"  Kheingold  ! 

Clear  and  pure, 
Show  thy  glory  in  the  depths, 
There  alone  is  Truth  and  Trust, 
False  and  faithless  all  above, 
"Who  rejoice !" 

All  this  the  reader  may  possibly  be  familiar  with.  To 
dwell  upon  each  scene  is  here  impossible.  I  wish  to 
notice  the  first  employment  of  what  I  have  called  the 
Color  Art  of  the  Future.  The  eye  is  prepared  for  the 
lurid  and  horrible  interior  of  the  Niebelungen  Caves, 
where  the  scourged  slaves  ply,  amid  shrieks,  the  cease- 
less hammer — by  white  clouds  of  steam  shot  with  red 


THE    RAINBOW   SCENE.  229 

light.  This  is  used,  with  varying  intensities,  to  never- 
pausing  music,  simply  as  a  sensuous  appeal  to  the  eye, 
and  its  effect  is  a  pyschological  marvel.  All  the  burden 
of  horror  and  pain  is  in  the  surging,  hissing,  crimson 
cloud.  It  is  the  terrible  bridge  over  which  the  spectator 
passes  to  the  realm  Niebelheim,  as  the  gods  pass  to  "VVal- 
halla  over  the  rainbow.  Steam  or  any  other  medium, 
shot  with  changing  color,  and  perhaps  accompanied  by 
music — the  Color  Symphony — is  still  to  come  ;  its  raw 
elements  are  present  in  the  sunset,  as  the  raw  elements 
of  music  are  in  the  sounds  of  nature,  and  the  cries  of 
birds  and  beasts.  "Wagner  has  perhaps  unconsciously 
flashed  the  first  line  of  the  new  Art  upon  us  in  the 
Rheingold. 

Of  the  spiritual  beauty  of  the  "Rainbow  scene," 
which  is,  pictorially,  worthy  of  Turner,  I  can  hardly 
speak.  Yet  even  here  the  fateful  curse  that  hangs  over 
the  Rheingold  and  all  who  touch  it — here,  in  the  hour 
of  joy  and  godlike  splendor — there  is  a  hint  of  the  final 
overthrow  of  the  "Walhalla  and  the  "  Dusk  of  the 
Gods."  It  is  to  be  seen  in  the  crimson  Niebelheim 
light  upon  the  mighty  ramparts  and  towers — a  light  that 
gives  a  sober  tinge  even  to  the  rainbow.  It  is  to  be  heard 
in  the  haunting  cry  of  the  Rhine  daughters  over  their 
lost  treasure,  which  makes  even  the  happy  gods  pause 
on  the  threshold  of  "Walhalla.  It  is  felt  in  the  mingled 
undertones  of  the  orchestra,  breaking  forth  at  last  into 
the  strong  closing  bars  of  the  Rheingold.  A  terrible 
firmness  of  purpose,  beyond  the  control  even  of  the  gods 
themselves,  is  urging  forward  the  course  of  all  things 
in  heaven  and  earth  ;  none  may  go  back,  none  may  look 
behind.  The  old  Anangke — or  Necessity — of  the  Greeks 
is  at  the  bottom  of  all,  and  seems  to  say  alike  to  the 
Rhine  daughters,  the  dwarfs,  the  giants,  and  the  gods, 


230  MY    MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

"  Go  forward  ;  the  end  must  come  ;  what  will  be,  will 
be." 

The  Rheingold,  lasts  for  two  hours  and  a  half  at  a 
stretch,  during  wThich  time  there  is  no  pause  in  the 
music  ;  but  there  is  also  no  sign  of  fatigue  in  the  audi- 
ence, who  sit  in  rapt  attention  to  the  close. 

II. —  Walkure. 

With  the  Walkure,  or  Warrior  Daughters  of  God 
Wotan  (Wodin),  begin  the  famous  three  days  to  which 
the  Rheingold,  described  in  my  last,  was  the  introduc- 
tion. The  God  Wotan  in  his  earthly  wanderings 
became  the  father  by  a  mortal  woman  of  Siegmund  and 
Sieglinde.  Upon  the  interest  of  one  of  the  Walkure, 
Briinnhilde,  in  this  couple,  and  her  final  sacrifice  of 
Virgin  deity  in  their  cause,  this  next  drama  in  three  acts 
turns.  Let  us  enter  the  theatre  about  five  o'clock.  A 
fanfare  of  trumpets  outside  gives  the  signal.  The 
lights  are  lowered.  In  the  twilight  the  whole  assembly 
seems  aware  that  Wagner  and  the  king  are  approach- 
ing. In  the  royal  box  I  see  the  two  stand  for  a 
moment  like  dark  shadows,  the  king  bowing  once  to 
the  people  amid  breathless  silence,  broken  only  by  the 
woe-burdened  chords  and  unquiet  distant  thunderings  of 
the  orchestra. 

The  curtain  rises.  A  wild  cabin,  into  which  out  of 
the  storm  enters  Siegmund — throws  himself,  dead  with 
fatigue,  before  a  rude  fire,  and  sleeps.  In  steals  Sieg- 
linde, his  sister,  the  forced  wife  of  Hunding,  a  savage 
hunter.  Thus  brother  and  sister,  separated  from  the 
cradle,  meet  unknown  to  each  other.  We  are  at  once 
completely  outside  all  conventional  moralities — in  an  age 
and  faerie  sphere  in  which  human  passion  has  to  be  con- 


SIEGMUND    AXU    SIEGLINDE.  231 

templated  apart  from  all  civilized  conditions.  We  thus 
follow  breathlessly,  without  shock,  the  inexorable  devel- 
opment of  the  various  phases  of  recognition,  self-abandon- 
ment, confession,  and  ecstasy  which  follow.  The  wild 
music  flowing  to  the  wild  life  of  the  wandering  Siegmund, 
as  he  pours  it  all  out  to  his  new  friend  and  protectress, 
•who  revives  him  with  a  cooling  draught,  consoles  him, 
and  already  claims  him  as  her  deliverer  ;  the  entrance  of 
Hunding  ;  the  fight  between  him  and  Siegmund,  wliich 
is  to  take  place  on  the  morrow  ;  the  sleeping  potion  ad- 
ministered to  him  by  Sieglinde  ;  and  the  long  scene  at 
night,  where  she  steals  out  all  in  white,  to  Siegmund— 
these  are  graphic  and  awe-inspiring  situations.  The 
moon  spreads  through  the  room,  and  the  fire  dies,  and 
through  the  open  door  are  seen  the  fair,  moonlit  woods, 
and  all  is  peace — this  the  reader  must  imagine  for  him- 
self. Nothing  more  searching  in  delineation  of  passion 
was  ever  conceived  than  this  scene  between  lovers  about 
to  risk  all,  with  fate  overhanging  them,  and  hearts  filled 
alternately  with  the  pain  of  dread  forebodings  and  an  in- 
extinguishable love. 

As  the  last  spark  on  the  hearth  dies,  the  music  becomes 
flowing  and  deep,  like  a  broadening  river.  A  strange  red 
light — the  light  of  Wotan — falls  on  the  giant  oak-tree, 
showing  the  hilt  of  a  sword  plunged  in  there  by  a  mys- 
terious stranger.  He  who  could  draw  it  should  alone 
free  Sieglinde  from  her  brutal  husband.  Siegmund  rises 
and  draws  it,  amidst  a  great  burst  of  triumphant  sound. 
This,  on  the  morrow,  should  give  him  victory  over  the 
coarse  Hunding,  for  the  sword  is  Wotan's  own,  hidden 
there  for  his  son  Siegmund.  The  deep  wealth  of  sound 
upon  which  the  lovers  are  now  buoyed  up  as  they  fall 
into  each  other's  arms  is  like  the  mingling  of  oceans  and 
rivers  and  clouds  ;  and  the  strong,  terrible  chords,  to 


232  MY    MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

which  the  curtain  again  falls,  are  as  the  might  of  resist- 
less love,  hurrying  to  its  fateful  close. 

The  second  act  reveals  to  us  the  wild  Briinnhilde — 
War  Walkiire.  With  spear  in  hand  she  scales  the 
rocks  ;  the  clouds  are  about  her  ;  sjie  shouts  to  her  com- 
panions, and  her  voice  mingles  with  the  winds.  As  she 
mounts  each  crag  her  notes  rise  higher  and  higher — 
a  melody  of  bewitching,  boisterous  wildness.  How 
Wotan  bids  the  War  Walkiire  defend  his  favorite  Sieg- 
mund  in  the  coming  duel  with  ITunding  ;  how  Fricka, 
his  jealous  wife,  burns  for  the  death  of  Siegmund,  the 
mortal  bastard  ;  how  the  god  gives  in  wreakly,  and  bids 
Briinnhilde  destroy  him  ;  how  Briinnhilde,  a  dear,  good 
creature,  protests,  and  goes  at  last  to  her  mission,  clad 
in  mail  and  scarlet,  with  a  heavy  heart  —must  be  told  in 
few  words.  From  this  moment  to  the  end  of  the  act 
the  excitement,  without  pause,  goes  on,  changing  in 
form,  but  ever  increasing.  Now  the  flying  lovers  rush 
on  the  rocky  stage  ;  the  sound  of  Hunding's  horn,  the 
cry  of  his  dogs,  is  in  their  ears  ;  then  all  is  again 
ecstasy,  until  Sieglinde  breaks  out  in  a  strange  scene  of 
passionate  remorse  at  having  been  the  wife  of  an  un- 
loved man.  Her  intense  love  for  Siegmund  makes  her 
past  life  seem  too  vile.  But  hark  ! — and  the  sound  of 
dogs  and  horns,  the  rushing  of  wind  and  crashing  of 
branches,  swells  in  the  orchestra,  and  Sieglinde  faints, 
and  is  laid  resting  on  a  rock.  Then  a  passage  of  un- 
speakable solemnity  occurs  with  the  re-entrance  of 
Briinnhilde.  She  stands  before  Siegmund — come  on  her 
fateful  errand— and  the  music  grows  sweet  and  solemn, 
with  the  majestic  Wotan  "  motif  ;"  she  tells  the  hero 
that  whoever  looks  on  her  must  shortly  die  ;  that  she 
takes  the  warrior  to  Walhalla,  but  that  he  must  fall  in 
fight.  Measured  and  slow  as  fate,  yet  strangely  full  of 


THE    FIGHT.  233 

tenderness,  is  her  terrible  message.  "With  knightly  calm 
he  listens,  and  at  last,  with  a  burst  of  love  which  shakes 
Briiimhilde's  own  heart,  he  declares  that  he  will  kill 
himself  and  his  beloved,  but  they  shall  not  be  divided. 
The  "Walkiire,  at  last  overcome,  and  faithless  to  "Wotan's 
command,  promises  protection. 

But  the  orchestra  resumes  the  stormy  music  ;  the 
battle  hour  approaches  ;  clouds  hurry  restlessly  through 
the  sky  ;  Hunding  is  close  at  hand  among  the  high 
crags  yonder.  "With  a  burning  kiss  the  hero  leaves  Sieg- 
linde,  and  hurries  to  meet  the  foe.  She  rises,  all  is 
wild,  and  the  air  grows  stormy  and  dark  around  her  ; 
she  calls  Siegmund  wildly,  and  rushes  forward  ;  but  too 
late,  she  never  sees  him  alive  again.  On  the  topmost 
rocks  we  hear,  behind  the  clouds,  the  warriors  shouting 
and  the  arms  clashing.  It  is  a  fearful  moment,  and  the 
orchestra  is  taxed  to  the  uttermost.  The  clouds  part 
for  a  moment  only — the  bright  Briinnhilde  is  seen  floating 
above  her  hero,  clad  in  shining  steel  and  crimson.  In 
vain  !  Wotan  himself  appears,  and  shatters  Siegmund' s 
magic  sword  with  his  spear.  The  hero  is  slain.  The 
clouds  now  roll  aside  ;  in  terrible  red  smoke  and  blinding 
light,  the  angry  god  stands  out.  At  a  word  Hunding, 
the  coarse  hunter,  falls  dead  before  him  ;  but  the  god 
turns  upon  poor  Briinnhilde,  -and,  as  the  curtain  falls, 
curses  her  for  her  disobedience. 

The  storm  music  and  the  thunder  roll  away  ;  and,  after 
a  tension  probably  unexampled  in  dramatic  art,  we  issue 
forth  into  the  now  cool  and  darkened  air  ;  eighteen  hun- 
dred people  disperse  upon  the  hill  and  roadside,  and  dis- 
cuss for  an  hour  in  the  temporary  cafes  their  experi- 
ences. Liszt  1  find  with  his  daughter,  Madame  "Wag- 
ner, and  other  ladies,  chatting  to  a  group.  The  prince 
and  poet  of  the  Romantic  School  has  a  long  cigar  in  his 


234  MY   MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

mouth  and  a  large  bock  of  beer  in  his  hand.  People 
hurry  up  and  are  introduced  at  times — he  receives  all 
cordially  with  "  Schon  !  Schon  !"  I  remember  that 
Wagner  was  loudly  called  for  at  the  end  of  the  second 
act,  but  did  not  appear.  But,  oddly  enough,  before  the 
last  act,  when  the  theatre  was  half  empty,  he  came  on 
the  stage  and  bowed,  and  was  cheered  wildly. 

The  last  act  opens  with  a  scenic  effect  which  it  was 
anticipated  would  tax  any  theatre  to  render  adequately. 
The  chorus  of  the  Walkiire  on  the  rocks,  half  hidden 
with  clouds,  as  they  wait  for  Briinnhilde,  their  Amazon 
sister,  unconscious  of  her  catastrophe,  is  quite  unparal- 
leled in  its  wild  and  spontaneous  splendor.  The  cries 
and  shouts  are  hurled  from  rock  to  rock  with  waving  of 
arms  and  clashing  of  spears  and  shields.  The  troubled 
sky  is  in  ceaseless  motion,  the  air  is  h'lled  with  boisterous 
elemental  mirth,  and  the  bursting  cries  of  unbridled 
animal  spirits  are,  somehow,  all  woven  into  a  kind  of 
chorus,  resting  upon  such  an  ocean  of  orchestral  sound 
as  has  certainly  never  before  been  heard  or  conceived  by 
mortals.  Amid  thunder  and  flashes  Briinnhilde,  drag- 
ging poor  rescued  Sieglinde,  now  suddenly  appears  on 
the  stage,  and  what  follows  must  be  merely  summarized  : 
the  despair  of  Sieglinde  ;  the  devotion  of  the  tender, 
reckless  Briinnhilde — inconceivably  touching  symbol  of 
the  devotion  which  good  women  are  capable  of  for  each 
other  ;  the  wild  recrudescence  of  joy  which  seizes  Sieg- 
linde when  Briinnhilde  hands  to  her,  with  fervid  song, 
the  fragments  of  Siegmund's  magic  sword — all  that  is 
left  of  him  now,  yet  enough  for  vengeance,  enough  to 
win  the  Rheingold  from  the  Giant  Fafner,  enough  for  the 
hero  Sieglinde  is  about  to  bear.  She  is  then  hurried  away 
to  safety,  and,  with  the  appropriate  recurring  strains  in 
the  orchestra,  the  God  Wotan  at  last  approaches. 


THE  SLEEP   OF  THE   WALKUBE,  235 

The  favorite  Walkiire,  deprived  of  her  arms,  comes 
forth  to  learn  the  doom  of  her  disobedience.  Some 
divine  necessity  compels  her  banishment  from  Walhalla, 
and  infinitely  subtle  and  complex  are  the  music  and  sen- 
timent which  follow.  Briinnhilde  has  been  drawn 
earthward  by  human  sympathy — she  will  become  whole 
woman  by  and  by,  who  has  thus  stooped  to  human 
affection — but  earthly  love  shall  destroy  her  divinity  ; 
and,  meanwhile,  parted  forever  from  her  sisters  and  her 
father,  who  still  love  her  fondly,  she  shall  sleep  amid 
wild  and  lonely  rocks  encircled  with  fire,  waiting  for  the 
lover  who,  dauntless,  shall  find  her  and  wake  her  there, 
and  make  her  his  earthly  bride. 

The  flight  of  the  sister  "Walkiire  in  the  storm,  with  a 
wild  chorus  full  of  despairing  screams,  is  followed  by  a 
protracted  and  inconceivably  touching  parting  between 
the  resigned  Briinnhilde  and  the  father,  Wotan — whose 
anger  has  died  away  as  the  sunset  sky  has  slowly  faded 
into  deeper  and  deeper  gray.  Then,  to  long  drawn  out 
and  enchanting  melody,  Briinnhilde's  head  sinks  on  her 
father's  breast,  and  his  mind  wanders  back  to  the  happy 
time  when  she,  the  "War  Maiden,  his  pride,  brought  new 
warriors,  the  boldest  and  best,  to  fill  the  Walhalla  courts. 
The  poor  Walkiire  can  but  sob  that  she  has  loved  her 
father  Wotan  and  Walhalla,  and  implore  him,  if  she  is 
to  become  a  mortal's  bride,  to  surround  her  rock  with 
fire,  to  bar  her  from  all  but  the  bravest.  It  is  now 
almost  dark  ;  a  faint  red  light  lingers  on  the  supple  yet 
lordly  form  of  Briinnhilde.  A  strange  swoon  seems  to 
have  already  seized  her  ;  the  god  lays  her  gently  pros- 
trate on  the  rock,  then  waves  her  into  her  long  sleep. 
Then,  retiring  suddenly  to  the  back  of  the  stage,  he  calls 
for  the  Fire  God,  Loge  ;  a  burst  of  fire  breaks  out  and 
runs  round  the  stao;e  ;  in  another  moment  the  whole 


23G  MY   MfSICAL    MEMORIES. 

background  Is  an  immense  wall  of  rose-colored  flame, 
which  gradually  creeps  round  the  rock.  To  the  most  en- 
chanting and  dream-like  music  of  silver  bells,  harps,  and 
flutes,  with  an  undercurrent  of  bass  strings,  the  sleep  of 
the  Walklire  begins  ;  the  god  scales  the  rocks,  stands  for 
a  moment  in  the  midst  of  the  fire,  then  passes  through 
it  out  of  sight,  as  the  curtain  falls  to  the  silver,  peaceful, 
unearthly  cadences,  repeated  again  and  again,  swelling 
and  falling,  and  ceasing  at  last,  leaving  the  heart,  after 
so  much  fierce  storm,  at  rest. 

///. — Siegfried. 

The  grotesque  music  given  to  both  Mime  and  Albe- 
rich,  like  so  much  of  Wagner's  misunderstood  recitative, 
aims,  no  doubt,  at  following  the  inflexions  of  the  hu- 
man voice  as  it  is  affected  often  by  very  commonplace 
moods,  as  well  as  by  the  meaner  impulses  of  arrogance, 
vexation,  anger,  and  spite.  What  we  lose  in  musical 
charm  we  gain  in  a  certain  ingenious  sense  of  reality.  I 
think, the  power  of  Wagner,  the  solidity  of  his  work, 
largely  turns  upon  this.  He  is  never  afraid  of  length, 
of  silence,  even  of  dulness,  caused  by  protracted  or  de- 
layed action.  Like  De  Balzac,  he  knew  well  how  to 
work  up  slowly  and  surely  to  a  consummate  effect,  and 
Ins  effect  never  hangs  fire,  nor  is  it  ever  liable  to  an 
anticlimax,  that  bane  of  second-rate  artists. 

A  cavern  rocky — somewhere  deep  in  a  forest — lies 
before  us  ;  and  Mime,  the  misshapen  thing,  fit  brother 
of  Alberich,  the  lord  of  Niebelheim,  or  fog-land,  works 
away  at  a  forge  to  make  a  sword  fit  for — whom  ?  In  he 
comes,  the  wild,  robust  child  of  the  forest — reminding 
me  of  the  first  appearance  of  that  other  wild,  robust 
creation  Parsifal.  In  he  comes,  driving  a  fierce  brown 


MIME    AND   SIEGFRIED.  237 

bear  bridled  in  sport.  Mime  the  dwarf  shrinks  back — 
Mime,  who  has  been  foster-father  to  this  Siegfried,  son 
of  Sieglinde  and  Siegnmnd.  He  has  brought  him  np  in 
ignorance  of  his  parentage,  knowing  well  the  dash  of 
Deity  in  his  blood,  and  knowing  also  that  could  the 
fragments  of  the  magic  sword,  given  up  by  Sieglinde 
as  her  most  precious  legacy,  be  somehow  welded  to- 
gether again,  Siegfried,  her  son,  would  be  able  to  wield 
it  with  resistless  might  and  slay  the  dragon  Fafner  who 
keeps  the  gold. 

This  accursed  gold-heap — eternal  symbol  of  ill-gotten 
wealth  and  the  curse  of  it — forms  the  magic  centre 
around  which  all  the  actors  in  this  cycle  of  dramas  con- 
sciously or  unconsciously  move. 

The  character-contrast  between  Mime,  the  mean, 
double-dealing,  cringing,  cowardly  creature,  who  hopes  to 
use  the  young  hero  for  his  purposes,  and  Siegfried,  the 
free,  noble,  daring  youth,  with  a  presentiment  of  great 
destinies  before  him,  is  drawn  in  large  outline.  There  is 
great  distinction  of  type,  great  simplicity  of  conception 
and  straightforwardness  of  execution  ;  the  master  is  sure 
of  his  touches  and  lays  them  on  with  a  free,  bold  hand. 
Siegfried  throughout  revolts  against  Mime — yet  Mimo 
holds  secrets  which  he  burns  to  know.  Who  were  his 
father  and  mother  ?  What  means  his  wild,  secluded, 
lonely  life  ?  lie  cannot  taste  broth  -at  Mime's  hands 
without  disgust  ;-  he  cannot  talk  with  him  without  quar- 
iclling ;  he  can  hardly  bear  the  sight  of  him  ;  will  not 
believe  that  Mime  is  his  father  at  all  ;  wants  a  sword 
that  he  cannot  break  ;  will  have  the  fragments  of  the 
magic  sword  "  Kothung "  welded;  shatters  Mime's 
welding  of  them  ;  proceeds  to  weld  them  himself. 

The  welding  of  Jsotlmng,  hammer  on  anvil  in  the 
gloomy  cavern,  with  the  regular  puffing  and  blowing  of 


238  MY   MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

the  rude  bellows — the  protracted  song — most  tuneful, 
almost  conventional  in  form — broken  off  and  resumed, 
and  itself,  as  it  were,  welded  with  every  blow  into  the 
sword  Nothung,  produces  a  very  singular  and  "  seiz- 
ing "  effect.  The  actors  appear  to  be  entirely  lost  in 
their  business — the  audience  have  come  upon  a  forge  in 
a  very  rocky  forest  cave — difficult  work  is  going  on,  to 
very  long-winded  accompaniment,  full  of  varied  realist- 
ic detail.  If  we  want  to  see  the  work  put  through  wo 
must  stop  ;  if  not,  we  may  go.  But  the  work  cannot  be 
hastened  ;  the  welding  of  that  sword  is  the  turning-point 
of  the  drama  ;  the  wielding  of  it  secures  the  gold,  the 
ring,  and  the  helmet,  and  the  spell  of  these  secures 
Briinnhilde  for  Siegfried  ;  the  transfer  of  these  treasures 
wrecks  Briinnhilde  and  brings  on  the  final  catastrophe. 
The  action  is  delayed,  but  the  welding  is  thorough,  and 
when  with  a  mighty  stroke  the  anvil  is  cloven  in  twain, 
we  know  that  the  young  hero  is  at  last  fitted  with  an 
irresistible  weapon,  and  that  the  drama  has  moved 
through  one  of  its  most  critical  and  decisive  stages. 

The  Dragon's  Cave — the  summer  woods — the  coming 
together  of  the  various  people  interested  in  the  gold — 
these  are  the  elements  of  the  next  act.  There  is  the 
Wanderer,  the  god  Wotan  in  disguise,  who  originally 
stole  the  gold  from  Alberich,  who  in  his  turn  had  filched 
it  from  the  Rhine  girls,  and  who  now  thinks  he  may  get 
it  back  somehow  from  Fafner  the  giant.  Fafner,  in  the 
form  of  a  great  dragon,  lies  on  it  day  and  night.  There 
is  Alberich,  the  first  robber,  hovering  about  the  Neid- 
hole,  or  cavern,  in  the  hope  of  getting  back  the  treasure  ; 
there  is  Mime,  who  about  this  time  makes  sure  of  the 
prize  in  his  own  mind,  as  he  fancies  Siegfried  is  in  his 
power,  and  proposes  to  employ  him  to  kill  Fafner. 


A   SOEEY   DEAGON.  239 

Then  lie  will  poison  liim  with  a  draught,  and  clutch  both 
magic  sword  and  treasure. 

All  these  old-world  scamps  meet  and  talk  and  eye  each 
other,  and  plot  and  ask  riddles  and  give  hints.  Sieg- 
fried, meanwhile,  holds  the  key  of  the  great  enigma — 
stands  completely  apart — alone  in  his  strength,  simplici- 
ty, and  might,  the  holder  and  wielder  of  the  sword 
ISothung,  with  deep  scorn  in  his  heart  for  the  pitiful 
and  mean  schemers  and  quacks  by  whom  he  is  sur- 
rounded, and  with  an  innate  perception,  born  of  com- 
muning with  nature,  of  the  snares  they  are  laying  for 
him. 

The  grimness  and  hideousness  of  the  cavern  and  the 
"Worm-dragon  seem  to  resume  the  spirit  of  all  the  un- 
lovely wickedness  and  avarice  of  Siegfried's  rivals.  The 
glorious  sunshine,  the  glowing  foliage  of  the  woodlands, 
the  song  of  wild  birds,  symbolize  the  spirit  while  pro- 
viding a  mise-en-scene  for  the  valor,  the  victory,  and  the 
love-musings  of  the  young  hero. 

The  dragon  is  no  doubt  the  weak  point.  I  believe 
Mr.  Dannreuther  gave  three  hundred  pounds  for  him  in 
London,  and  brought  him  over  with  the  utmost  care. 
His  tail,  I  am  told,  was  worked  by  one  man  inside  him, 
and  his  jaws  by  another  ;  but  somehow  he  could  not  be 
got  to  show  fight  at  the  right  time.  lie  was  a  poor 
beast ;  the  steam  came  out  of  his  mouth  too  late  ;  his 
tail  stuck  half-way  on  the  wag,  and  he  had  evidently 
some  difficulty  in  opening  his  jaws.  He  was  easily 
slain,  and  rolled  over  conveniently  enough,  leaving  the 
treasure  in  the  hands  of  Siegfried. 

Otherwise  the  weirdness  of  the  whole  scene  was  in- 
describable. That  enchanting  summer-land — that  deli- 
cious burst  of  woodland  melody  —that  strong  contrast 
between  the  blazing  sheen  of  emerald  and  amber-lighted 


240  MY   MUSICAL   ilEMOIUES. 

trees  and  the  gloomy  cavern  hard  by — that  sudden 
poetic,  trance-like  pause,  full  of  wild  birds  and  love 
dreams,  just  before  the  sharp  attack  on  the  Dragon,  fol- 
lowed by  the  repulsive  murder  of  Mime,  and  the  resump- 
tion of  the  same  bright  love  dream  immediately  after- 
ward :  this  can  never  fail  to  impress  the  dullest  sensibil- 
ity with  its  extreme  beauty.  Vogel's  Siegfried,  as  an 
impersonation,  was  on  a  level  with  Materna's  Briinn- 
hilde.  The  music  to  which  the  curtain  falls  on  the 
second  act,  as  Siegfried,  wild  with  anticipation,  follows 
the  bird  that  flies  before  him  singing,  and  showing  him 
the  way  to  Briinnhilde,  who  lies  on  her  fire-girt  rock 
waiting  for  him — that  ocean  of  summer  woodland  music 
upon  which  a  hero's  spirit  passes  into  the  consciousness 
of  first  love — is  beyond  these  halting  words. 

The  contrasts  which  follow  are  dramatically  admirable. 
Old  Wotan's  gloomy  conference  with  Erda,  the  mystic 
partner  of  his  old-world  love,  in  which  ho  takes  stock 
of  the  situation;  views  with  mixed  feelings  the  rise  and 
progress  of  Siegfried,  and  with  feelings  still  more  mixed 
the  decay  of  his  own  power  and  the  approaching  down- 
fall of  Walhalla  ;  then  his  dubious  colloquy  with  Sieg- 
fried, who  suddenly  confronts  him  on  his  way  to  the 
fire-girt  rock  ;  his  mingled  pride  and  dignity,  together 
with  his  growing  sense  of  being  powerless  to  hinder  the 
consummation  of  Briinnhilde' s  union  with  the  upstart 
demi-semi-god — follow,  scene  after  scene,  with  cumula- 
tive effect.  The  striking  episode  in  which  Siegfried 
breaks  the  old  god's  spear,  when  it  is  thrust  between  him 
and  the  unknown  object  of  his  passion  ;  and  finally  the 
terrific  ocean  of  crimson  flame  through  which  the  hero 
bursts  fearlessly  to  the  side  of  the  sleeping  Walkiire — 
truly  these  be  massive  and  monumental  conceptions  ! 
Like  great  world-types  they  unroll  themselves  before  us 


THE   SURRENDER.  241 

in  so  many  magical  scenes  of  unsurpassed,  dramatic,  and 
daring  grandeur. 

I  suppose  it  will  be  generally  allowed  that  "Wagner  is 
the  greatest  master  of  love  duets  that  ever  wedded 
words  to  music.  The  absorbing  picture  of  love  and  jeal- 
ousy in  Lohengrin,  of  pure  and  impure  love  subtly  con- 
trasted in  Tannhauser,  passion  of  love  and  death  in 
Tristan  and  Isolde,  the  unique  passages  between  Parsifal 
and  Kundry — passion  essentially  primeval  touched  with 
a  certain  divine  intensity  as  is  tit  in  demi-gods,  like 
Siegfried  and  Briinnhilde — these  are  essential  manifes- 
tations of  dramatic  force  and  profound  intention,  beside 
which  even  the  love  passages  in  Gounod's  Faust  and, 
Marguerite  seem  like  mere  child's  play. 

The  moment  has  arrived.  The  majestic  Briinnhilde 
wakes  with  all  her  divine  war-maiden  instincts  still  upon 
her  ;  confronts  the  hero  who  is  to  win  her,  at  first  with 
terror  ;  realizes  slowly,  painfully,  then  irresistibly  and 
ecstatically,  the  might  of  human  passion,  and  surrenders 
the  old  heroism  of  a  crumbling  Walhalla,  and  the 
dreams  of  god-like  power  and  independence,  at  the  burn- 
ing touch  of  human  love.  Better  that  touch  of  real  life 
than  all  the  flimsy  visions  of  a  decaying  mythology — 
nobler  the  sincerity  of  human  feeling,  that  seizes  its  ob- 
ject and  concentrates  its  sympathies,  than  the  vague, 
restless  wanderings  of  old  reprobates  like  Wotan,  or  the 
war-lust  of  fiery,  death-hungry  Walkiire  such  as  Briinn- 
hilde was  —  such  as  the  bride  Walkiire  will  never  be 
again.  Hear  her 

"  O  Siegfried  ! 
Lightener — world's  delight — 
Life  on  earth — 
And  laughing  lord, 
Leave,  ah  !  leave  me  !" 


242  MY   MUSICAL  MEMORIES. 

And  Siegfried  but  replies  : 

"  Awaken,  Brlinnhilde  ! 
"Waken,  them  maid  ! 
Live  to  me,  laugh  to  me, 

Sweetest  delight  : 
Be  mine  !  be  mine  !" 

No  translation  seems  to  give  an  adequate  vigor  or  do 
justice  to  the  strength  and  passion  of  the  dialogue, 
which  ends  in  a  long  paean  of  triumph  as  the  curtain 
falls  and  Siegfried  takes  his  prize. 

Hail,  thou  sun  My  Briinnhilde's  glow. 

That  shinest  around  me  ;  Mine,  ever  mine, 

Hail,  thou  morn  All  of  her  mine 

From  out  the  dark  ;  And  only  mine, 

Hail,  thou  world  (Brunnhilde  throws  herself  into  Sieg- 

That  wakes  Brunnhilde.  friecCs  arms). 

She  wakes !  she  lives  !  Come,  life  of  me ! 

She  laughefch  back  Thou  light  of  love  ! 

My  splendid  star,  Thou  laughing  Death ! 


IV. — The  Gotterdammcrung. 

v 
The  Niebelung^s  Ring  closes  with  the  "  Dusk  of  the 

Gods."  The  truly  prodigious  way  in  which  all  the 
leading  subjects  are  repeated,  inverted,  and  worked  up 
in  the  music  of  this  last  colossal  drama  cannot  be  de- 
scribed. The  Wotan  Melody  —  perhaps  the  finest  — 
blown  on  trumpets  outside  the  theatre,  rang  out  far  over 
hill  and  dale,  and  floated  like  an  ominous  blast  to  the 
town  below.  At  the  familiar  sound  the  people  flocked 
to  their  seats  in  the  theatre.  The  first  melodies  of  the 
Rlieingold  break  from  the  orchestra,  and  the  Korns  or 
Fates  are  seen  weaving  the  last  of  their  ropes  ;  they  see 
as  they  weave  the  story  of  Siegfried  and  Brunnhilde — 
they  see  the  gods  growing  old — they  trace  the  history  of 
Wotan's  earth  love — they  start  with  horror  as  they  at  last 


TIIE   HOUSE   OF   HAGEtf.  243 

see  the  flames  rising  in  a  vision  round  Walhalla.  The 
rope  breaks  ;  the  Norns  vanish. 

The  day  dawns  to  a  clear  subject  worked  in  skilful 
counterpoint,  and  the  farewell  scene  between  Briinnhilde 
and  her  new  mate/  Siegfried,  as  he  parts  from  her  to 
seek  knightly  adventures,  now  absorbs  us.  Her  sorrow 
at  parting  is  almost  drowned  by  her  feeling  of  pride  in 
him  and  the  thought  of  glorious  war  ;  and  here  the 
Walkiire  nature  breaks  out  in  her.  She  would  fain  fol- 
low him,  but  this  may  not  be  ;  and  as  she  is  about  to  bs 
left  again  on  her  fire-girt  rock,  she  scales  one  height 
after  another,  shouting  a  wild  and  ecstatic  adieu  to  the 
hero,  who  is  heard  galloping  away  to  a  strange  mixture 
of  Rhine  music  and  a  peculiar,  joyous,  scampering  sub- 
ject, which,  together  with  his  horn-blast,  always  heralds 
his  coming  and  going. 

But  the  curse  of  the  Gold  is  upon  him,  and  death, 
and  worse  than  death,  is  brewing  for  him  in  the  house 
of  Hagen,  hateful,  bastard  son  of  Dwarf  Alberich,  by  a 
mortal  woman.  Hagen  lives  with  his  brother  on  Rhine- 
banks,  when  Siegfried,  as  a  wandering  knight,  appears 
at  his  halls.  Ilagen,  Giinther,  the  brother,  and  the  fair 
sister,  Gutrune,  are  sitting  together.  Hagen,  the  instru- 
ment of  Alberich,  is  wholly  bent  on  getting  back  the 
Rheingold.  lie  tells  Giinther  of  the  sleeping  Briinn- 
hilde, who  can  be  approached  by  Siegfried  only,  and  in- 
flames his  desire  to  seize  her.  At  this  moment  Sieg- 
fried's horn  is  heard  ;  he  enters,  and  the  plot  thickens. 
He  is  soon  given  a  drink  which  makes  him  forget  every 
woman  he  has  known  before,  even  poor  Briinnhilde. 
Siegfried,  thus  bewitched,  then  proceeds  to  fall  in  love 
with  Gutrune,  and  listens  to  the  tale  of  Briinnhilde  on 
the  flame-girt  rock  with  astonishment,  swears  friendship 
to  Giinther,  and  undertakes  to  assume  his  friend's  shape 


244  MY   MUSICAL    MEMORIES. 

by  magic,  cross  the  flames,  seize  his  own  Briismliilde,  and 
hand  her  over  to  Giinthcr. 

From  this  moment  the  horrible  plot  is  harrowing  in 
the  extreme.  No  art,  no  music,  no  magic  can  reconcile 
us  to  what  follows  ;  the  horror  is  piled  up.  The  scene 
changes.  Briinnhilde  waits  on  her  rock  ;  hears  a  horse 
and  Siegfried's  horn,  but  with  something  jarring  and 
false  about  it  ;  but  she  heeds  not  that,  he  returns  !  The 
fire  is  crossed,  a  warrior  appears  on  the  height.  She 
flies  to  throw  herself  into  his  arms — the  form  of  Giin- 
ther  is  before  her  !  How  he  coolly  hands  her  over  to  the 
real  Giinther,  who  is  waiting  ;  her  horror  and  bewil- 
dering despair  ;  his  callous  indifference  and  complete 
absence  of  all  memory  of  her,  which  she  cannot  revive 
in  him  ;  the  meeting  of  the  two  couples,  Briinnhilde  and 
Giinther  with  Siegfried  and  his  new  bride,  Gutrune  ; 
the  terrible  scene  between  Briinnhilde  and  Siegfried 
before  the  household  and  retainers  of  Hagen,  in  which 
she  declares  Gutrune's  husband  to  be  hers  ;  the  jealous 
frenzy  of  Giinther  and  the  death  of  Siegfried,  which  is 
now  plotted  and  presently  carried  out  by  stabbing  in  the 
back — all  this  it  is  impossible  here  to  do  more  than 
summarize. 

A  brief  and  exquisite  episode  between  the  Rhine- 
daughters  and  Siegfried,  chiefly  a  treble  trio  by  the  float- 
ing nymphs,  of  sustained  and  enchanting  beauty,  relieves 
the  pressure  of  horror  we  have  just  been  going  through 
from  the  despair  and  fury  of  Briinnhilde,  whose  wild 
cries  and  heart-rending  gestures  can  never  be  forgotten. 
Then  comes,  at  last,  the  beginning  of  the  end. 
Siegfried,  seated  with  Hagen,  Giinther,  and  warriors, 
drinks  of  a  cup  which  restores  his  memory,  and  begins 
to  relate  his  past  life  ;  as  lie  advances  in  his  narrative, 
full  of  wondrous  declamation  and  music,  he  at  length 


THE  END.  245 

nears  the  Briinnhilde  episode  ;  snatches  of  the  Walkiire 
and  the  fire-sleep  music  break  out  ;  a  strange  fervor 
seizes  him  ;  he  tells  of  the  embrace  on  the  rock,  and  his 
mind  begins  to  reel  with  sudden  perplexity.  But  it  is 
enough  !  At  this  point  Hagen  stabs  him  in  the  back.  As 
he  dies  his  thoughts  grow  clear.  Briinnhilde's  love  re- 
turns— he  sees  but  her,  dreams  of  her  in  his  dying 
swoon  ;  although  she  is  not  present — she,  his  first,  last 
love,  fills  his  latest  consciousness. 

The  struggle  for  the  Ring  which  follows,  the  suicide 
of  Giinther,  the  sudden  apparition  of  Briinnhilde,  intro- 
duce the  last  episode  of  striking  beauty.  The  scenery 
from  this  point  becomes  indescribable.  The  moon  is 
full  upon  the  ruffled  Rhine-waters  ;  the  tall  funeral 
tapers  flash  on  the  steel  helms  of  the  retainers  ;  the  body 
of  Siegfried,  clad  in  mail,  lies  in  the  middle  of  the 
stage  ;  and  the  stately  form  of  the  Walkiire  is  isolated 
by  his  side,  as  the  crowd  falls  to  right  and  left. 

While  an  immense  funeral  pyre  is  being  built  up  in 
the  background  beside  the  Rhine-waters,  Briinnhilde 
makes  her  last  reconciliation  with  Siegfried.  As  she 
gazes  on  his  pallid  face  she  reads  that  dying  recognition. 
She  understands,  at  last,  the  magic  spell  that  was  on 
him.  Her  love  towers  above  everything  else  —  she 
stands  there  the  embodiment  of  the  sublime  trust  in  love 
beyond  sight,  that  believes  and  lasts  out  against  all  ad- 
verse shocks,  and  is  faithful  even  unto  death.  She  has 
known  divine  might  in  the  halls  of  Walhalla,  she  has 
had  the  power  of  the  Ring  and  the  power  of  Gold,  and 
enjoyed  all  fame  of  war  and  victory  ;  and  now,  with  her 
latest,  breath,  comes  solemnly  forth  what  is  the  conclu- 
sion of  the  whole  drama,  "  Blessedness,  through  joy 
and  sorrow,  comes  to  us  from  Love  unquenchable 
alone  !" 


246  MY   MUSICAL  MEMORIES. 

With  this  she  moves  in  the  moonlight  toward  the 
Rhine.  She  draws  the  Ring  of  the  Rheingold — the 
cause  of  such  grief  and  manifold  pain — from  the  hero's 
linger,  and  flings  it  back  into  the  Rhine,  from  whence  at 
the  commencement  it  was  snatched  by  Alberich. 

The  Walkiire's  black  war-horse  has  been  brought  to 
her  ;  she  waves  high  a  naming  torch,  and  hurls  it  upon 
the  bier  ;  the  fire  rises  in  lurid  columns.  She  mounts 
her  steed  and  leaps  into  the  flames. 

At  that  moment,  in  the  awful  glow  of  the  flaming  pyre, 
the  waters,  still  flashing  with  moonlight  in  the  back- 
ground, begin  to  swell  and  advance,  and  the  Rhine-daugh- 
ters, singing  the  wildest  Rhine  music,  are  seen  floating  to 
and  fro.  Beyond,  a  ruddier  light  broadens,  until  the  dis- 
tant sky  discloses  the  courts  of  the  Walhalla  in  flames. 
With  a  crash  in  the  foreground  the  house  of  Hagen 
falls  ;  and  while  the  mighty  conflagration  flares  up  in  the 
distance,  the  Rhine- waters,  to  rushing  music,  advance 
and  submerge  the  whole  of  the  stage. 

Thus,  with  a  scene  of  unequalled  dramatic  splendor, 
ends  the  fourth  and  last  immense  drama  of  the  Niebe- 
lung1  s  Ring.  This  is  not  the  place  for  fuller  criticism  of 
such  a  work.  At  the  close  of  it  the  pent-up  enthusiasm 
of  the  public  rose  to  a  pitch  of  frenzy.  They  stood  up, 
and,  turning  to  the  royal  box,  which  Wagner  had  left, 
shouted  to  the  king,  who  remained  seated  and  bowed 
graciously.  The  plaudits  continuing,  His  Majesty 
motioned  to  the  stage.  The  people  turned,  and  in  a 
moment  Wagner,  dressed  in  plain  black,  with  his  hat  in 
one  hand,  stepped  out  from  the  middle  of  the  curtain, 
and  stood  motionless  with  his  gray  head  uncovered  until 
repeated  cries  of  "  Sit  down  !"  "  Sit  down  !"  and 
"  Hush  !"  had  calmed  the  assembly.  Wagner  then 
spoke  very  quietly,  and  I  regret  that  not  hearing  him 


THE    PLOT.  247 

quite  distinctly  at  moments  I  am  unable  to  render  ver- 
batim a  speech  -which  has  doubtless  been  elsewhere 
recorded.  I  understood  him  to  say  he  had  taken  many 
years  in  preparing  this  work  ;  that  he  had  presented  a 
Saga  of  the  Kiebelung  in  the  belief  that  it  dealt  with 
subjects  peculiarly  congenial  to  the  Germanic  races  ; 
that  a  new  and  national  development  of  the  drama  was 
now  within  their  reach  ;  he  believed  that  they  had  been 
satisfied  with  what  they  had  listened  to,  so  that  it  had 
been  to  the  many  assembled  there  a  real  Festspiel. 
He  then  thanked  the  king  for  his  support  and  encour- 
agement ;  and,  the  curtain  being  suddenly  lifted,  all  the 
crowd  of  musicians  and  actors  who  had  taken  part  in  the 
Festival  stood  ranged,  and  Wagner,  turning  round, 
thanked  them  in  the  warmest  terms  for  their  devotion 
and  assistance. 

So  ended  the  first  great  Wagner  Festival,  held  at 
Bayreuth  in  18TG. 

*  *  -*  *  #  * 

As  some  people  seem  to  have  considerable  difficulty  in 
mastering  the  plot  of  the  Niebelung1  s  Ring,  I  venture  to 
offer  a  rough  skeleton  account  of  it,  which  may  profit- 
ably be  studied  before  or  after  witnessing  the  four 
dramas. 

I. 

RHEINGOLD. 

SCENE  I. — The  sun  irradiating  the  depths  of  the  river,  becomes  in 
the  myth — mythos,  I  ought  to  say — a  concrete  treasure — Rheingold. 
It  has  marvellous  properties,  and  if  stolen  and  forged  into  a  ring, 
guides  its  owner  to  all  the  hidden  gold-mines  of  the  earth.  But  he 
•who  owns  the  gold  must  renounce  love.  Three  Rhine  girls  guard  the 
gold.  Alberich,  King  of  the  Undergrounds,  a  hideous  dwarf,  makes 
love  to  the  Underwater  girls  of  the  Rhine,  is  rejected,  renounces  love, 


Z40  MY    MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

but  clutches  the  gold,  and  makes  off  with  it  to  Niebelheim — fog-land 
— his  underground  caves. 

SCENE  II. — Wotan,  King  of  Gods,  tired  of  love,  has  employed  giants 
to  build  him  a  majestic  palace,  and  offered  them  Freia,  Goddess  of 
Love,  as  payment.  The  other  gods  refuse  to  part  with  Freia  -when 
the  palace  is  done,  and  Wotan  has  nothing  left  which  the  giants  will 
take  instead.  The  clever  fire-god  Loge  hears  of  the  Rhine  gold,  now 
in  Alberich's  possession.  Offers  it  to  the  giants.  Offer  accepted, 
and  Loge  and  Wotan  go  off  to  steal  it. 

SCENE  III.— Loge  and  Wotan  enter  Niebelheim.  Alberich  displays 
the  gold  ;  also  a  cap,  which  enables  the  wearer  to  assume  any  form. 
At  Loge's  suggestion,  he  becomes  u  toad,  just  for  fun  ;  is  captured, 
and  the  ring  and  all  his  wealth  passes  over  to  Wotan,  but  not  before 
the  ring  is  cursed  by  Alberich,  and  destined  henceforth  to  bring 
misery  and  disaster  to  its  owner. 

SCENE  IV. — The  gold  and  fatal  ring  are  got  rid  of  to  the  giants,  who 
take  the  whole  in  payment  ;  Freia,  who  gives  youth  and  joy  to  the 
gods,  is  released,  and  the  gods  walk  processionally  into  their  new 
palace,  over  a  beautiful  rainbow  bridge.  Curtain  falls. 


II. 
WALKCEE. 

SCENE  I. — Opens  as  Siegmund,  a  son  of  earth-woman  by  god  Wotan, 
staggers  into  a  log  hut,  breathless,  and  falls  prostrate  with  fatigue. 
Flying  from  his  enemies,  he  has  found  shelter — but  where  ?  In 
Hunding's  hut.  Enter  Sieglinde,  daughter  of  earth-woman  by  god 
Wotan  ;  brother  and  sister,  unknown  to  each  other,  converse. 
Hunding  enters,  and  all  three  converse.  The  situation  dawns  on 
them,  and  Hunding,  respecting  his  guest,  recognizes  his  foe,  and 
summons  him  to  mortal  combat  on  the  morrow.  That  night,  in  a 
stolen  interview,  Sieglinde  and  Siegmund  arrange  matters  ;  a  magic 
sword  left  sticking  in  a  big  tree  by  Wotan,  is  claimed  by  Siegmund 
and  drawn  forth,  that  being  the  only  provision  made  by  the  god  for 
his  gallant  offspring.  The  lovers  escape  together. 

SCENE  II. — Father  Wotan  parleys  with  the  war-maidens  anent  the 
coming  duel  of  Siegmund  with  Hunding.  Father  Wotan  parleys 
with  his  wife  Fricka  on  the  same  subject.  Fricka  is  mad  for  the 
death  of  the  irregular  son  Siegmund.  Wotan,  with  bleeding  heart, 
at  last  yields,  and  Walkiire  Briinnhilde  has  commission  to  get  him 
well  slain  in  the  fight.  Warlike,  but  tender,  Briinnhilde  appears  to 


SIEGFRIED.  249 

Sieginund,  and  tells  him  of  his  fate,  but  is  melted  at  the  spectacle  of 
the  despairing  lovers,  and  goes  over  in  disobedience  to  their  cause, 
protects  the  hero  in  the  duel,  but  is  foiled  by  Wotan,  who  comes  in 
as  a  most  detestable  deus  ex  machina,  and  gets  his  own  son  killed 
after  all.  Briinnhilde  takes  care  of  poor  Sieglinde,  about  to  become 
the  mother  of  Siegfried,  and  gives  her  the  fragments  of  the  magic 
sword,  only  shattered  by  the  might  of  Wotan.  Briinnhilde,  for  her 
disobedience,  loses  her  divinity,  and  is  laid  to  sleep  on  a  fire-encom- 
passed rock.  Having  stooped  to  love,  she  is  now  handed  over  to  the 
love  of  a  mortal,  only  the  lover  must  be  brave,  and  will  have  to  go 
through  the  tire  and  claim  her,  which  brings  us  to  the  threshold  of 
the  third  drama,  Siegfried. 

in. 

SlEGFBIED. 

SCENE  I. — Sieglinde  has  died  giving  birth  to  Siegfried.  Mime 
(Alberich's  deformed  brother),  who  lives  in  a  wood,  has  sheltered  her, 
and,  knowing  of  the  secret  of  the  hero  she  has  given  birth  to,  his 
deini-godhood,  and  the  invincible  sword  he  is  to  wield,  the  fragments 
of  which  are  in  Mime's  possession,  the  shrewd  dwarf  brings  him  up 
with  care,  and  intends  to  make  him  by  and  by  slay  Fafner,  the  giant, 
who,  in  the  disgiiise  of  a  dragon,  keeps  the  gold  stolen  for  the  giants 
by  the  gods  from  Alberich.  The  first  scene  concludes  with  the  suc- 
cessful mending  of  the  broken  sword  by  the  combined  efforts  of 
Siegfried,  now  grown  to  manhood,  and  his  foster-father,  Mime. 

SCENE  II. — All  parties  interested  are  now  found  lurking  about  the 
hole  where  Fafner  watches  the  gold.  The  old  scapegrace  of  a  god 
Wotan  comes  prowling  about,  partly  curious  to  see  his  grandson, 
Siegfried,  who  is  to  wield  the  magic  sword — partly  with  his  eye  on 
the  gold.  Alberich  turns  up  at  the  hole  watching  the  main  chance, 
and  ready  to  clutch  at  his  lost  treasure.  Mime  makes  sure  of  it  when 
Siegfried  has  killed  the  dragon.  He  means  to  bring  him  a  sleep- 
drink,  slay  him,  and  get  the  gold.  Presently  the  dragon  is  slain. 
Mime  offers  the  drink  ;  Seigfried  sees  through  him,  and  slays  him  too. 
Having  by  chance  put  his  finger,  stained  with  dragon's  blood,  to  his 
lips,  he  suddenly  understands  the  cry  of  the  birds  in  the  branches. 
One  bird  sings  out  loud  and  clear,  and  tells  of  the  maid  who  lies,  fire- 
surrounded,  en  a  rock.  Siegfried  follows  the  magic  bird,  who  is  to 
lead  him  to  Briinnhilde. 

SCENE  III. — On  his  way  he  meets  Wotan,  who  opposes  his  spear,  to 
test  his  descendant's  prowess  and  power.  Siegfried  breaks  it  with 


250  MY    MUSICAL    MEMORIES. 

his  magic  sword,  and  with  it  scatters  the  might  of  \Valhalla.  He 
reaches  the  fire-rock,  bursts  through  the  flames,  and  claims  Briinn- 
hilde  as  his  bride. 

IV. 

GOTTEEDAMMEBUNG. 

Siegfried  having  left  Briinnhilde  in  search  of  knightly  adventures, 
comes  to  the  Khine  castle  of  Hagen.  There  ho  is  drugged  with  a  magic 
potion  by  Hagen' s  daughter,  Gutrune,  who  wants  to  marry  him. 
Said  potion  causes  him  to  forget  his  love  for  Briinnhilde  and  fall  in 
love  with  Gutrune.  He  now  promises  to  go  with  her  brother, 
Giinther,  and  capture  Briinnhilde  on  her  fire-surrounded  rock  and 
hand  her  over  to  Giinther.  Arrives  with  him,  seizes  Briinnhilde,  and 
hands  her  over.  The  frightful  situation  is  then  worked  out  in 
Hagen's  castle  by  the  Rhine.  Siegfried  appears  as  Gutrune's  lover, 
Giinther  as  Brunnhilde's  ;  they  all  four  meet.  Briinnhilde  is 
puzzled,  and  falls  into  despair  at  not  being  recognized  by  Siegfried, 
who  is  under  a  spell.  In  his  lifetime  the  harrowing  mystery  is  never 
solved,  but  before  his  assassination  by  Hagen  he  partially  recovers 
his  memory.  While  reciting  the  story  of  his  life  he  is  suddenly 
stabbed.  Briinnhilde  then  comes  on  the  scene  to  find  him  dead  ; 
but  the  truth  that  he  has  been  bewitched  dawns  upon  her.  She  pro- 
claims him  tender  and  true  in  death.  They  heap  up  logs  ;  he  is 
hoisted  on  to  the  pile,  but  not  before  Briinnhilde  Las  taken  the  fatal 
ring  from  the  hero's  finger,  and  cast  it  back  into  the  Khine.  Tha 
Rhine-girls  appear  on  the  surface  singing.  The  air  darkens,  the 
flames  rise.  Brunnhilde's  war-horse  is  led  out  for  the  last  time,  horse 
and  Walkiire  leap  into  the  flames.  The  Rhine  swells  up  to  the  foot- 
lights, washing  over  everything,  and  extinguishing  the  funeral  pile  ; 
and  the  house  of  Hagen— pillars,  doors,  and  lintel— falls  into  ruin. 


CHAPTER  YIII. 


LISZT. 


THE  greatest  phenomenal  players  of  their  age  have 
undoubtedly  been  Liszt  and  Pagan ini.  They  were 
great  not  merely  because  they  could  play  better  than 
others,  but  because  they  created  what  they  played.  It  is 
quite  possible  to  maintain  that  Rubinstein  and  Billow 
play  quite  as  well  as  Liszt,  or  that  Ernst  and  Joachim 
are  as  good  as  Paganini  ;  but  it  is  nevertheless  an  absur- 
dity and  impertinence  to  argue  the  point.  They  were 
not  the  first — they  came  afterward.  A  man  who  takes 
gold  out  of  a  mine  may  be  as  good  as  the  man  who  dis- 
covered the  mine,  but  he  is  not  that  man.  He  does  ex- 
cellent work,  but  he  was  not  the  first  on  the  ground — he 
came  afterward. 

A  thing  once  discovered  cannot  bo  rediscovered,  and 
an  aureole  shines  round  the  head  of  the  pioneer  to  which 
no  subsequent  traveller  may  lay  claim..  But  quite  apait 
from  what  is  new  and  original  in  their  respective  contri- 
butions to  Art,  it  is  doubtful  whether  two  such  extraor- 
dinary personalities  as  those  of  Paganini  and  Liszt  have 
ever  appeared  in  the  world  of  virtuosity.  In  some  respects 
Liszt  is  even  more  extraordinary  than  Paganini  ;  for,  in 
the  first  place,  he  electrified  a  world  still  under  the  spell 
of  the  weird  Italian's  Cremona  ;  and,  in  the  second 
place,  his  demands  have  achieved  for  the  piano  what  no 
demands  of  Paganini  ever  could  for  the  violin — a  pro- 
found modification  and  re-creation  of  the  instrument  to 


252  MY    MUSICAL    MEMORIES. 

enable  him  to  realize  his  prodigious  feats  of  sonority  and 
execution.  The  modifications  introduced  by  violin  re- 
pairers— strengthening  bars,  ribs,  gluing  cracks,  etc. — 
are  trifling  compared  to  the  changes  which  separate  the 
pianoforte  of  1820  from  that  of  1880.  Paganini  is  the 
creator  of  the  modern  violin  school  ;  but  Liszt  has  not 
only  created  the  modern  pianoforte  school,  but  in  some 
sort  the  modern  pianoforte. 

Great  heart,  great  brain,  daring  originality,  electric 
organization,  iron  nerve,  and  a  soul  vibrating  to  sound 
like  an  yEolian  harp  to  the  wind — there  you  have  the 
personality,  phenomenal  and  unique,  of  Franz  Liszt. 

Who  has  not  heard  of  Liszt  ?  Who  has  heard  Liszt  ? 
I  suppose  to  most  of  us  he  is  personally  a  great  tradition 
and  nothing  more  ;  his  compositions,  indeed,  form  the 
chief  pieces  de  resistance  of  our  annual  crop  of  piano- 
forte recitals  ;  but  the  man  and  his  playing  are  alike  un- 
known. He  has  already  become  historical  during  his 
lifetime.  Only  by  a  happy  chance  can  I  reckon  myself 
among  the  few  who  have  lately  heard  Liszt  play. 
j'  I  happened  to  be  staying  in  Rome,  and  Liszt  kindly 
invited  me  over  to  the  Villa  d'Este  twice. 

There  at  Tivoli,  alone  with  him,  he  conversed  with 
me  of  the  times  long  gone  by — of  Mendelssohn,  of  Paga- 
nini, of  Chopin. 

There  in  the  warm  light  of  an  Italian  autumn,  subdued 
by  the  dark-red  curtains  that  hung  in  his  study,  with  an 
old-world  silence  around  us,  he  sat  at  his  piano  once 
more  ;  and  as  he  played  to  me  the  clock  of  time  went 
back,  and  Chopin  entered  with  his  pale,  refined  face,  his 
slight  aristocratic  iigure  ;  Heine  sat  restlessly  in  a  dark 
corner  ;  Madame  Sand  reclined  in  the  deep  window- 
niche  overlooking  the  desolate  Campagna,  with  Rome  in 
the  distance  ;  De  Lammenais  stood  at  the  foot  of  the 


1811 — THE    COMET   YEAR.  253 

piano — a  delicate,  jet  sinewy  and  mobile  frame — with 
his  noble,  eager  face  all  aglow,  his  eloquent  tongue 
silent,  listening  to  the  inspiration  of  another  believer  in 
another  evangeliurn — the  evangelinm  of  the  emotions, 
the  Gospel  of  Art. 

Shadows  all  of  you,  yet  to  me  for  an  hour,  in  the 
deep  solitude  of  the  great  Cardinal's  palace  alone  with 
Liszt,  more  real  than  the  men  and  women  of  our  lesser  / 
day. 

One  thousand  eight  hundred  and  eleven  was  the  year 
of  the  great  comet — a  year  which,  we  are  told,  re-echoed 
with  the  sounds  of  the  lyre  and  the  sword,  and  an- 
nounced so  many  pioneering  spirits  of  the  future. 

In  1811  was  Franz  Liszt  born.  He  had  the  hot  Hun- 
garian blood  of  his  father,  the  fervid  German  spirit  of 
his  mother,  and  he  inherited  the  lofty  independence, 
with  none  of  the  class  prejudices,  of  the  old  Hungarian 
nobility  from  which  he  sprang. 

Liszt's  father,  Adam,  earned  a  modest  livelihood  as 
agent  and  accountant  in  the  house  of  Count  Esterhazy. 
In  that  great  musical  family  inseparably  associated  with 
the  names  of  Haydn  and  Schubert,  Adam  Liszt  had  fre- 
quent opportunities  of  meeting  distinguished  musicians. 
The  Prince's  private  band  had  risen  to  public  fame 
under  the  instruction  of  the  venerable  Haydn  himself. 
The  Liszts,  father  and  son,  often  went  to  Eisenstadt, 
where  the  count  lived  ;  there  they  nibbed  elbows  with 
Cherubini  and  Hummel,  a  pupil  of  Mozart. 

Franz  took  to  music  from  his  earliest  childhood. 
When  about  five  years  old,  he  was  asked  what  he  would 
like  to  do.  "  Learn  the  piano,"  said  the  little  fellow. 
Soon  afterward  his  father  asked  him  what  he  would  like 
to  be  ;  the  child  pointed  to  a  print  of  Beethoven  hang- 
ing on  the  wall,  and  said,  "  Like  him."  Long  before 


254  MY   MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

his  feet  could  reach  the  pedals  or  his  fingers  stretch  an 
octave,  the  boy  spent  all  his  spare  time  strumming, 
making  what  he  called  "  clangs,"  chords,  and  modula- 
tions. He  mastered  scales  and  exercises  without  diffi- 
culty. 

But  there  was  a  certain  intensity  in  all  he  did  which 
seemed  to  wear  him  out.  He  was  attacked  with  fever, 
but  would  hardly  be  persuaded  to  lie  down  until  com- 
pletely exhausted  ;  then  he  lay  and  prayed  aloud  to  God 
to  make  him  well,  and  vowed  that  on  his  recovery  he 
would  only  make  hymns  and  play  music  which  pleased 
God  and  his  parents.  The  strong  lines  of  his  character 
early  asserted  themselves — religious  ardor,  open  sincer- 
ity, a  certain  nobleness  of  soul  that  scorned  a  lie  and  gen- 
erously confessed  to  a  fault,  quick  affections,  ready  sym- 
pathies, a  mind  singularly  without  prejudices  or  an- 
tipathies, except  in  music.  Liszt's  musical  antipathies 
are  matters  of  world- wide  notoriety — his  hatred  of 
11  Conservatorium  "  dogma,  his  contempt  for  the  musi- 
cal doctrinaire,  his  aversion  to  the  shallow  and  frivolous, 
his  abhorrence  of  mere  sensationalism. 

The  boy's  decided  bent  soon  banished  all  thought  of 
anything  but  a  musical  vocation,  but  the  res  angustm 
domi  stood  in  the  way.  How  was  he  to  be  taught  ? 
how  was  he  to  be  heard  ?  how  to  earn  money  ?  That 
personal  fascination,  from  which  no  one  who  has  ever 
come  in  contact  with  Liszt  has  quite  escaped,  helped 
him  thus  early.  When  eight  years  old,  he  played  before 
Count  Esterhazy  in  the  presence  of  six  noblemen, 
among  them  Counts  Amadee,  Apponyi,  and  Szapary  — 
eternal  honor  to  their  names  !  They  at  once  subscribed 
for  him  an  annuity  of  six  hundred  gulden  for  six  years. 
This  was  to  help  the  little  prodigy  to  a  musical  educa- 
tion. 


MAXY   MASTERS.  255 

His  parents  felt  the  whole  importance  of  the  crisis. 
If  the  boy  was  to  prosper,  the  father's  present  retired 
life  with  a  fixed  income  must  be  changed  for  an  unset- 
tled wandering  and  precarious  existence.  "  When  the 
six  years  are  over,  and  your  hopes  prove  vain,  what  will 
become  of  us  ?' '  said  his  mother,  who  heard,  with  tears 
in  her  eyes,  that  father  was  going  to  give  up  the  agency 
and  settle  down  wherever  the  boy  might  need  instruc- 
tion, protection,  and  a  home.  "Mother,"  said  the  im- 
petuous child,  "  what  God  wills  !"  and  he  added,  pro- 
phetically enough,  "  God  will  help  me  to  repay  you  for 
all  your  anxieties  and  for  what  you  do  forme."  And 
with  what  results  he  labored  in  this  faith,  years  after- 
ward in  Paris,  we  shall  see. 

The  agency  was  thrown  up  ;  the  humble  family, 
mother,  father,  son,  went  out  alone  from  the  little  Hun- 
garian village  into  an  unknown  and  untried  world, 
simply  trusting  to  the  genius,  the  will,  the  word  of  an 
obscure  child  of  eight:  "1  will  be  a  musician,  aud 
nothing  else  !" 

As  the  child  knelt  at  his  farewell  mass  in  the  little 
village  church  of  Raiding,  many  wept,  others  shook 
their  heads,  but  some  even  then  seemed  to  have  a  pre- 
sentiment of  his  future  greatness,  and  said,  "  That  boy 
will  one  day  come  back  in  a  glass  coach."  This  modest 
symbol  represented  to  them  the  idea  of  boundless  wealth. 

Hummel  would  only  teach  for  a  golden  louis  a  lesson, 
and  then  picked  his  pupils  ;  but  at  Vienna  the  father 
and  son  fell  in  with  Czerny,  Beethoven's  pupil,  and  the 
famous  Salieri,  now  seventy  years  old.  Czerny  at  once 
took  to  Liszt,  but  refused  to  take  anything  for  his  in- 
struction. Salieri  was  also  fascinated,  and  instructed 
him  in  harmony  ;  and  fortunate  it  was  that  Liszt  began 
his  course  under  two  such  strict  mentors. 


256  MY   MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

He  soon  began  to  resent  Czerny's  method,  thought 
lie  knew  better  and  needed  not  those  dry  studies  of 
dementi  and  that  irksome  fingering  by  rule  ;  he  could 
finger  everything  in  half-a-dozen  different  ways.  There 
was  a  moment  when  it  seemed  that  master  and  pupil 
would  have  to  part  ;  but  timely  concessions  to  genius 
paved  the  way  to  dutiful  submission,  and  years  after- 
ward the  great  master  dedicated  to  the  rigid  discipli- 
narian of  his  boyhood  his  Vingt-quatre  Grandes  fitudes 
in  affectionate  remembrance. 

Young  talent  often  splits  upon  the  rock  of  self-suffi- 
ciency. Many  a  clever  artist  has  failed  because  in  the 
pride  of  youthful  facility  he  has  declined  the  method  and 
drudgery  of  a  correct  technique. 

Such  a  light  as  Liszt's  could  not  be  long  hid  ;  all 
Vienna  in  1822  was  talking  of  the  wonderful  boy. 
"  Est  deus  in  nobis,"  wrote  the  papers  rather  profanely. 
The  "little  Hercules,"  the  "young  giant,"  the  boy 
"virtuoso  from  the  clouds,"  were  among  the  epithets 
coined  to  celebrate. his  marvellous  rendering  of  Hummers 
"  Concerto  in  A  "  and  a  free  "  Fantasia  "  of  his  own. 

The  Vienna  Concert  Hall  was  crowded  to  hear  him  ; 
and  the  other  illustrious  artists  then — as  indeed  they 
have  been  ever  since  forced  to  do  wherever  Liszt  ap- 
peared— effaced  themselves  with  as  good  a  grace  as  they 
could. 

It  is  a  remarkable  tribute  to  the  generous  nature  as 
well  as  to  the  consummate  ability  of  Liszt,  that,  while 
opposing  partisans  have  fought  bitterly  over  him — Thal- 
bergites,  Herzites,  Mendelssohnites  versus  Lisztites — yet 
few  of  the  great  artists  who  have,  one  after  another,  had 
to  yield  to  him  in  popularity  have  denied  to  him  their 
admiration,  while  most  of  them  have  given  him  their 
friendship. 


BEETHOVEX   AND   LISZT.  257 

Liszt  early  wooed  and  early  won  Vienna.  He  spoke 
ever  of  his  dear  Viennese  and  their  "  resounding  city." 

When  I  saw  Liszt  at  Tivoli  in  1880,  I  remember  his 
saying  to  me,  "  J'ai  reeu  le  celebre  baiser  de  Beetho- 
ven." I  found  that  Beethoven's  secretary,  Schindler, 
wrote,  in  1823,  to  Beethoven  :  "  You  will  be  present  at 
little  Liszt's  concert,  will  you  not  ?  It  will  encourage 
the  boy.  Promise  me  that  you  will  go."  And  Beetho- 
ven went.  When  the  "  little  Liszt "  stepped  on  to 
the  platform,  he  saw  Beethoven  in  the  front  row  ;  it 
nerved  instead  of  staggering  him  —  he  played  with 
an  abandon  and  inspiration  which  defied  criticism. 
Amidst  the  storm  of  applause  which  followed,  Beethoven 
was  observed  to  step  up  on  the  platform,  take  the  young 
virtuoso  in  his  arms,  and  salute  him,  as  Liszt  assured  me, 
';  on  both  cheeks."  This  was  an  event  not  to  be  lightly 
forgotten,  and  hardly  after  fifty-seven  years  to  be  alluded 
to  without  a  certain  awe  ;  indeed,  Lizst's  voice  quite 
betrayed  his  sense  of  the  seriousness  of  the  occasion  as 
he  repeated,  with  a  certain  conscious  pride  and  gravity, 
"  Oui,  j'ai  regu  le  baiser  de  Beethoven." 

A  concert  tour  on  his  way  to  Paris  brought  him  be- 
fore the  critical  public  of  Stuttgardt  and  Munich.  Hum- 
mel, an  old  man,  and  Moscheles,  then  in  his  prime, 
heard  him,  and  declared  that  his  playing  was  equal  to 
theirs.  But  Liszt  was  bent  upon  completing  his  studies 
in  the  celebrated  school  of  the  French  capital,  and  at  the 
feet  of  the  old  musical  dictator  Cherubini. 

The  Erards,  who  were  destined  to  owe  so  much  to 
Liszt,  and  to  whom  Liszt  throughout  his  career  has  owed 
so  much,  at  once  provided  him  with  a  magnificent 
piano ;  but  Cherubini  put  in  force  a  certain  by-law  of 
the  Conservatoire  excluding  foreigners,  and  excluded 
Franz  Liszt. 


258  MY  MUSICAL  MEMORIES. 

This  was  a  bitter  pill  to  the  eager  student.  He  hardly 
knew  how  little  he  required  such  patronage.  In  a  very 
short  time  "  le  petit  Liszt"  was  the  great  Paris  sensation. 
The  old  noblesse  tried  to  spoil  him  with  flattery,  the 
Duchess  de  Berri  drugged  him  with  bonbons,  the  Duke 
of  Orleans  called  him  the  "little  Mozart."  He  gave 
private  concerts  at  which  Herz,  Moscheles,  Lafont,  and 
De  Beriot  assisted.  Rossini  would  sit  by  his  side  at  the 
piano  and  applaud.  He  was  a  "miracle."  The  com- 
pany never  tired  of  extolling  his  "verve,  fougue  et 
originalite,"  while  the  ladies,  who  petted  and  caressed 
him  after  each  performance,  were  delighted  at  his  simple 
and  graceful  carriage,  the  elegance  of  his  language,  and 
the  perfect  breeding  and  propriety  of  his  demeanor. 

He  was  only  twelve  when  he  played  for  the  first  time 
at  the  Italian  Opera,  and  one  of  those  singular  incidents 
which  remind  one  of  Paganini's  triumphs  occurred. 

At  the  close  of  a  bravura  cadenza  the  band  forgot  to 
come  in,  so  absorbed  were  the  musicians  in  watching  the 
young  prodigy.  Their  failure  was  worth  a  dozen  suc- 
cesses to  Liszt.  The  ball  of  the  marvellous  was  fairly 
set  rolling. 

Gall,  the  inventor  of  phrenology,  took  a  cast  of  the 
little  Liszt's  skull ;  Talma,  the  tragedian,  embraced  him 
publicly  with  effusion  ;  and  the  misanthropic  Marquis  de 
Noailles  became  his  mentor,  and  initiated  him  into  the 
art  of  painting. 

In  1824  Liszt,  then  thirteen  years  old,  came  with  his 
father  to  England  ;  his  mother  returned  to  Austria. 

He  went  down  to  "Windsor  to  see  George  IV.,  who 
was  delighted  with  him,  and  Liszt,  speaking  of  him 
to  me,  said :  "I  was  very  young  at  the  time,  but  I 
remember  the  king  very  well — a  fine,  pompous-looking 
gentleman." 


A   CHANGE.  259 

In  London  lie  met  dementi,  whose  exercises  lie  had 
so  objected  to,  Cipriani  Potter,  Cramer,  also  of  exercise 
celebrity,  Kalkbrenner,  Ideate,  then  a  fashionable  pianist, 
once  a  great  favorite  of  George  III.,  and  whom  I 
remember  about  thirty  years  ago  in  extreme  old  age  at 
Brighton.  He  described  to  me  the  poor  old  king's  de- 
light at  hearing  him  play  some  simple  English  melodies. 
"  I  assure  you,  Mr.  ISTeate,"  said  George  III.,  "  I  have 
had  more  pleasure  in  hearing  you  play  those  simple  airs 
than  in  all  the  variations  and  tricks  your  fine  players, 
affect." 

George  IY.  went  to  Drury  Lane  on  purpose  to  hear 
the  boy,  and  commanded  an  encore.  Liszt  was  also 
heard  in  the  theatre  at  Manchester,  and  in  several  private 
houses. 

On  his  return  to  France  people  noticed  a  change  in 
him.  He  was  now  fourteen,  grave,  serious,  often  pre- 
occupied, already  a  little  tired  of  praise,  and  excessively 
tired  of  being  called  " le  petit  Liszt."  His  vision  began 
to  take  a  wider  sweep.  The  relation  between  art  and 
religion  exercised  him.  His  mind  was  naturally  devout. 
Thomas  a  Kempis  was  his  constant  companion.  "  Rejoice 
in  nothing  but  a  good  deed;"  "Through  labor  to 
rest,  through  combat  to  victory  ;  "  "  The  glory  which 
men  give  and  take  is  transitory" — these  and  like 
phrases  were  already  deeply  engraven  on  the  fleshly 
tablets  of  his  heart.  Amidst  all  his  glowing  triumphs  he 
was  developing  a  curious  disinclination  to  appear  in 
public  ;  be  seemed  to  yearn  for  solitude  and  meditation. 

In  1827  he  now  again  hurried  to  England  for  a  short 
time,  but  his  father's  sudden  illness  drove  them  to  Bou- 
logne, where,  in  his  forty-seventh  year,  died  Adam  Liszt, 
leaving  the  young  Franz  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  at 
the  early  age  of  sixteen,  unprotected  and  alone. 


2GO  MY   MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

Rousing  liimself  from  the  bodily  prostration  and  torpor 
of  grief  into  which  he  had  been  thrown  by  the  death  of 
his  father,  Franz,  with  admirable  energy  and  that  high 
sense  of  honor  which  has  always  distinguished  him, 
began  to  set  his  house  in  order.  He  called  in  all  his 
debts,  sold  his  magnificent  grand  Erard,  and  left  Boulogne 
for  Paris  with  a  heavy  heart  and  a  light  pocket,  but  not 
owing  a  sou. 

He  sent  for  his  mother,  and  for  the  next  twelve  years, 
1828-1840,  the  two  lived  together,  chiefly  in  Paris. 
There,  as  a  child,  he  had  been  a  nine-days'  wonder,  but 
the  solidity  of  his  reputation  was  now  destined  to  go 
hand  in  hand  with  his  stormy  and  interrupted  mental  and 
moral  development. 

Such  a  plant  could  not  come  to  maturity  all  at  once. 
No  drawing-room  or  concert-room  success  satisfied  a 
heart  for  which  the  world  of  human  emotion  seemed 
too  small,  and  an  intellect  piercing  with  intuitive  intelli- 
gence into  the  "  clear  -obscure  "  depths  of  religion  and 
philosophy. 

But  Franz  was  young,  and  Franz  was  poor,  and  his 
mother  had  to  be  supported.  She  was  his  first  care. 
Systematically,  he  labored  to  put  by  a  sum  which  would 
assure  her  of  a  competency,  and  often  with  his  tender, 
genial  smile  he  would  remind  her  of  his  own  childish 
words,  "  God  will  help  me  to  repay  you  for  all  that  you 
have  done  for  me."  Still  he  labored  often  wofully 
against  the  grain. 

"Poverty,"  he  writes,  "that  old  mediator  between 
man  and  evil,  tore  me  from  my  solitude  devoted  to  med- 
itation, and  placed  me  before  a  public  on  whom  not 
only  my  own  but  rny  own  mother's  existence  depended. 
Young  and  overstrained,  I  suffered  painfully  under  the 
contact  with  external  things  which  my  vocation  as  a 


A    FEMALE   FORM.  201 

musician  brought  with  it,  and  which  wounded  me  all 
the  more  intensely  that  my  heart  at  this  time  was  filled 
entirely  with  the  mystical  feelings  of  love  and  re- 
ligion." 

Of  course  the  gifted  young  pianist's  connection  grew 
rapidly.  He  got  his  twenty  francs  a  lesson  at  the  best 
houses  ;  he  was  naturally  a  welcome  guest,  and  from  the 
first  seemed  to  have  the  run  of  high  Parisian  society. 
His  life  was  feverish,  his  activity  irregular,  his  health 
far  from  strong  ;  but  the  vulgar  temptations  of  the  gay 
capital  seemed  to  have  little  attraction  for  his  noble 
nature.  His  heart  remained  unspoiled.  He  was  most 
generous  to  those  who  could  not  afford  to  pay  for  his 
lessons,  most  pitiful  to  the  poor,  most  dutiful  and  affec- 
tionate to  his  mother.  Coming  home  late  from  some  grand 
entertainment,  he  would  sit  outside  on  the  staircase  till 
morning  sooner  than  awaken,  or  perhaps  alarm,  her  by 
letting  himself  in.  But  in  losing  his  father  he  seemed  to 
have  lost  certain  method  and  order.  His  meals  were 
irregular,  so  were  his  lessons  ;  more  so  were  the  hours 
devoted  to  sleep. 

At  this  time  he  was  hardly  twenty  ;  we  are  not  sur- 
prised anon  to  hear  in  his  own  words  of  "a  female  form 
chaste  and  pure  as  the  alabaster  of  holy  vessel ; ' '  but 
he  adds  :  "  Such  was  the  sacrifice  which  I  offered  with 
tears  to  the  God  of  Christians  !  " 

I  will  explain. 

Mdlle.  Caroline  St.  Cricq  was  just  seventeen,  lithe, 
slender,  and  of  "angelic"  beauty,  and  a  complexion 
like  a  lily  flushed  with  roses,  lt  impressionable  to  beauty, 
to  the  world,  to  religion,  to  God."  The  Countess,  her 
mother,  appears  to  have  been  a  charming  woman,  very 
partial  to  Liszt,  whom  she  engaged  to  instruct  Mademoi- 
selle in  music. 


262  MY    MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

Tlie  lessons  were  not  by  time,  but  by  inclination.  The 
young  man's  eloquence,  varied  knowledge,  ardent  love 
of  literature,  and  flashing  genius  won  both  the  mother 
and  daughter.  Not  one  of  them  seemed  to  suspect  the 
whirlpool  of  grief  and  death  to  which  they  were  hurrying. 
The  countess  fell  ill  and  died,  but  not  before  she  had 
recommended  Liszt  to  the  Count  St.  Cricq  as  a  possible 
suitor  for  the  hand  of  Mademoiselle. 

The  haughty  diplomat  St.  Cricq  at  once  put  his  foot 
down.  The  funeral  over,  Liszt's  movements  were 
watched.  They  Avere  innocent  enough.  lie  was  already 
an  enfant  de  la  maison,  but  one  night  he  lingered  reading 
aloud  some  favorite  author  to  Mademoiselle  a  little  too 
late.  He  was  reported  by  the  servants,  and  received  his 
polite  dismissal  as  music  master. 

In  an  interview  with  the  count  his  own  pride  was 
deeply  wounded.  "  Difference  of  rank  !  "  said  the  count. 
That  was  quite  enough  for  Liszt.  He  rose,  pale  as  death, 
with  quivering  lip,  but  uttered  not  a  word. 

As  a  man  of  honor  he  had  but  one  course.  He  and 
Caroline  parted  forever.  She  contracted  later  an  uncon- 
genial marriage  ;  he  seems  to  have  turned  with  intense 
ardor  to  religion.  His  good  mother  used  to  complain  to 
those  who  came  to  inquire  for  him  that  he  was  all  day 
long  in  church,  and  had  ceased  to  occupy  himself,  as  he 
should,  with  music. 

Love,  grief,  religion,  all  struggling  together  for  victory 
in  that  young  and  fervid  spirit,  at  last  seemed  fairly  to 
exhaust  him.  His  old  haunts  knew  him  not ;  his  pupils 
were  neglected  ;  he  saw  no  friends  ;  shut  himself  up  in 
his  room  ;  and  at  last  would  only  see  his  mother  at  meals. 
He  never  appeared  in  the  streets,  and  not  unnaturally 
ended  by  falling  dangerously  ill. 

It  was  during  this  period  of  severe  sickness  that  Paris 


REVOLUTION   AND   RESURRECTION.  263 

was  one  morning  startled  with  a  newspaper  announce- 
ment which  was  worded  as  follows  : 

"DEATH  of  YOUNG  LISZT. 

"  Young  Liszt  died  at  Paris — the  event  is  painful — at 
an  age  when  most  children  are  at  school.  He  had  con- 
quered the  public,"  etc. 

So  wrote  the  iStoile.  In  fact,  he  was  seriously  ill. 
M.  vonLenz,  Beethoven's  biographer,  went  to  visit  him. 
lie  was  lying  pale,  haggard,  and  apathetic  ;  could  hardly 
be  roused  to  converse  except  occasionally  when  music 
cropped  up.  Then  his  eye  brightened  for  a  moment  like 
the  "  flashing  of  a  dagger  in  the  sun." 

In  1830  the  Eevolution  burst  on  Paris.  This,  it  seems, 
was  needed  to  arouse  Liszt.  The  inner  life  was  suddenly 
to  be  exchanged  for  the  outer.  Self  was  to  be  merged  in 
the  larger  interests,  some  of  them  delusions,  which  now 
began  to  pose  again  under  the  cunning  watchwords  of 
"  Liberte,  ^galite,  Fraternite."  Generous  souls  saw  in 
the  quarrel  of  Charles  X.  with  his  people  the  hope  of  a 
new  national  life.  They  proposed  to  exchange  the  old 
and  effete  "Divine  right"  for  the  legitimate  "  sover- 
eignty of  the  people."  "  C'est  le  canon  qui  1'a  gueri  !" 
his  mother  used  to  say.  Liszt  was  hardly  restrained  by 
her  tears  and  entreaties  from  rushing  to  the  barricades. 
The  cure  threatened  to  be  worse  than  the  disease.  The 
heroic  deeds  of  the  "great  week"  inflamed  him,  and 
he  shouted  with  the  rest  for  the  silver-haired  General 
Lafayette,  "genius  of  the  liberties  of  two  worlds." 

The  republican  enthusiasm,  so  happily  restrained  from 
action  out  of  affection  for  his  dependent  mother,  found 
a  more  wholesome  vent  in  a  vigorous  return  to  his 
neglected  art.  Just  as  he  was  busy  revolving  great  battle 
symphonies,  his  whole  artistic  nature  received  a  decisive 
and  startling  impulse  from  the  sudden  apparition  of 


204  MY   MUSICAL  MEMORIES. 

Paganini  in  Paris.  Preceded  by  revolution  and  cholera, 
this  weird  man  had  come  upon  the  bright  city  that  had 
sinned  and  suffered  so  much,  and  found  her  shaken  and 
demoralized,  but  still  seething  with  a  strange  ferment 
of  new  life  in  which  Saint-Siinonianism,  communism,  and 
scepticism,  side  by  side  with  fanaticism,  piety,  and  ro- 
mance, struggled  to  make  confusion  worse  confounded. 
Into  the  depths  of  what  has  been  called  the  Romantic 
movement  of  1830-40  it  is  not  my  purpose  here  to  enter. 
There  was  war  alike  with  the  artificial  humdrum  of  the 
old  French  world  and  the  still  more  artificial  revival  of 
the  classical  world  of  Greece  and  Rome. 

The  human  spirit  was  at  length  to  be  liberated  ;  no 
one,  it  was  held,  need  believe  anything  that  did  not 
happen  to  commend  itself  to  his  fancy  or  passion.  As 
Heine  put  it :  "  The  great  God,  it  appeared,  was  not  at 
all  the  being  in  whom  our  grandmothers  had  trusted  ;  he 
was,  in  fact,  none  other  than  you  yourself."  No  one 
need  be  bound  by  the  morals  of  an  effete  civilization. 
In  Love  the  world  of  sentiment  alone  must  decide  our 
actions.  Every  one  must  be  true  to  nature.  All  men 
were  brothers,  and  women  should  have  equal  and  inde- 
pendent rights.  The  social  contract,  most  free  and  va- 
riable, must  be  substituted  for  marriage,  community  of 
goods  for  hereditary  possessions,  philosophy  for  law,  and 
romance  for  religion.  The  beautiful  and  pregnant  seeds 
of  truth  that  lay  imbedded  in  the  teeming  soil  of  this 
great  movement  have  since  fully  germinated  ;  its  extrav- 
agances have  already,  to  a  great  extent,  been  outgrown. 

In  spite  of  theories  disastrous  to  political  and  social 
order,  the  genius  of  Madame  Sand,  Victor  Hugo,  and 
A.  de  Musset,  sceptic  and  sensualist  as  he  was,  have 
rescued  the  movement  from  the  despair  of  raw  material- 
ism, and  produced  works  of  immortal  beauty. 


PAGANINI   AND   THE   AGE.  265 

They  helped  the  European  spirit  to  recover  its  inde- 
pendence, they  reacted  against  the  levelling  tyranny  of  the 
first  Napoleon,  and  were  largely  instrumental  in  under- 
mining the  third  Napoleon's  throne  of  gilded  lead. 
Stained  with  license  and  full  of  waywardness,  it  was, 
nevertheless,  an  age  of  great  and  strong  feelings — an  age 
volcanic,  vivid,  electric.  Such  an  age  eagerly  welcomed 
the  magicians  who  set  the  language  of  emotion  free,  and 
gave  to  music  its  myriad  wings  and  million  voices. 

Paganini  appeared.  The  violin  was  no  more  the  violin. 
A  new  transcendent  technique  made  it  the  absolute 
minister  of  an  emancipated  and  fantastic  will.  The 
extraordinary  power  exercised  by  the  Italian  violinist 
throughout  Europe  was  quickened  by  the  electric  air 
which  he  breathed.  The  times  were  ripe.  He  stood 
before  kings  and  people  as  the  very  emotional  embodi- 
ment of  the  Zeitgeist.  He  was  the  emanicipated  demon 
of  the  epoch,  with  power  to  wield  the  sceptre  of  sound, 
and  marshal  in  strange  and  frenzied  legions  the  troubled 
spirits  of  the  time. 

When  Liszt  heard  Paganini,  it  seemed  to  him  to  be 
the  message  for  which  he  had  been  waiting.  From  him 
he  doubtless  received  that  passion  for  ''transcendent 
execution,"  that  absolute  perfection  of  technique,  which 
enabled  him  to  create  the  modern  pianoforte  school,  and 
win  for  Erard  and  Broadwood  what  Paganini  won  for 
Stradivarius  and  Joseph  Guarnerius.  His  transcriptions 
of  Paganini's  studies,  the  arpeggio,  the  fioritm*e,  the 
prodigious  attaque  and  elan  that  took  audiences  by  storm, 
the  meetings  of  extremes  which  abolished  the  spaces  on 
the  pianoforte  key-board  by  making  the  hands  ubiquitous 
—  these  and  other  "developments"  were  doubtless  in- 
spired by  the  prodigious  feats  of  Paganini. 

Liszt  now  suddenly  retired    from  the   concert-room. 


266  MY    MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

He  was  no  longer  heard  in  public  ;  lie  seemed  disinclined, 
except  in  the  presence  of  his  intimates,  to  exhibit  his 
wondrous  talent ;  but  he  retired  to  perfect  himself,  to 
work  up  and  work  out  the  new  impulses  which  he  had 
received  from  Paganini. 

He  thus  early  laid  deep  the  foundations  of  his  unique 
virtuosity  ;  and  when  he  reappeared  in  public,  he  seemed 
to  mount  at  once  to  that  solitary  pinnacle  of  fame  and 
surpassing  excellence  to  which  the  greatest  pianists  then 
and  ever  since  have  looked  up  in  admiring  and  de- 
spairing wonder.  Tausig  said,  "  We  are  all  blockheads  by 
the  side  of  Liszt."  Rubinstein  has  often  declared  Liszt's 
perfection  of  art  and  wealth  of  resource  to  be  simply 
unrivalled. 

For  a  short  time  in  his  absence  at  Paris,  it  was  thought 
that  Thalberg  would  prove  a  formidable  opponent.  But 
Liszt  had  only  to  reappear,  and  Thalberg  himself  was 
forced  to  join  in  the  general  applause.  When  between 
the  various  schools  there  was  war,  it  was  carried  on  by 
the  partisans  of  the  great  men.  Although  they  freely 
criticised  one  another,  nothing  is  more  remarkable  than 
the  kindly  personal  feeling  which  obtained  between  Liszt 
and  his  natural  enemies,  the  great  pianists  of  the  age, 
Moscheles,  Chopin,  Mendelssohn,  Thalberg. 

There  were  no  doubt  cabals,  and  at  one  time  in  Paris 
he  met  with  much  detraction  ;  but  he  seemed  to  move  in 
a  region  of  lofty  courtesy  in  which  squabbling  for  prece- 
dence was  out  of  place  ;  and  his  generosity  of  heart  and 
genial  recognition  of  others'  talent  disarmed  criticism  and 
silenced  malice. 

With  the  outburst  of  the  Revolution,  with  the  appear- 
ance of  Paganini,  came  also  to  Liszt  a  violent  reaction 
against  the  current  religious  ideas  and  the  whole  of  the 
Catholic  teaching.  Reading  had  opened  his  eyes  ;  the 


LISZT   AND    DE   LAMEXXAIS.  2GT 

Catholic  system  seemed  to  him  not  only  inadequate,  but 
false.  He  required  a  freer  atmosphere,  one  rather  more 
interpretative  of  human  facts  and  human  nature  ;  he 
thought  he  found  it  in  the  doctrines  of  the  Saint-Si- 
monians.  The  "  Nouveau  Christianisme, "  by  far  the  best 
of  St.  Simon's  lucubrations,  seemed  to  show  that  the 
Church  had  misrepresented  and  outraged  the  religion  of 
Christ.  It  failed  to  take  due  account  of  art  and  science, 
had  no  sympathy  with  progress,  refused  altogether  to 
assimilate  the  Zeitgeist,  and  had  evidently  ceased  to  lead 
the  thinkers  or  purify  the  masses. 

About  this  time  Liszt  came  across  the  eloquent  and 
gifted  Abbe  de  Lamennais.  This  man  it  was  who,  more 
than  any  other,  saved  Liszt  from  drifting  into  the  pre- 
vailing whirlpool  of  atheism.  The  heterodox  Abbe,  who 
himself  had  broken  with  the  retrograde  religion  of  Home, 
re-formulated  his  system,  and  discovered  for  him  what 
at  that  time  he  most  craved  for — a  link  between  his  relig- 
ion and  his  art. 

/*  "  Art,"  said  De  Lamennais,  "is  in  man  what  creative 
power  is  in  God."     Art  is  the  embodiment  of  eternal 
'   types.     Xature  suggests  a  beauty  she  never  completely 
realizes.    Only  in  tlte  soul  of  man  is  the  supernal  beauty 
,    mirrored  as  it  exists  in  the  mind  of  God.   Art  is  the  soul's 
j     formula  for  the  expression  of  its  inner  life.   "  Art,  there- 
fore, is  an  expression  of  God  ;  her  works  are  an  infinite 
manifold  reflection  of  Him." 

^The  mission  of  art  to  reveal  the  secrets  of  the  inner 
life,  to  lift  the  souls  of  others  into  high  communion  with 
itself,  to  express  its  joy  in  possession,  its  hope  of  attain- 
ment, its  insatiable  and  divine  longings,  its  dreams  of  the 
infinite — these  seemed  to  Liszt  high  functions,  enriching, 
fertilizing,  and  consoling  all  life,  and  leading  the  spirit 
forth  into  that  weird  border  land  of  the  emotions,  where 


2G8  MY    MUSICAL   MEMOIIIES. 

voices  come  to  it  from  the  Unseen,  and  radiant  flashes 
from  behind  the  Veil. 

It  was  toward  the  close  of  1831  that  Liszt  met  Chopin 
in  Paris.  From  the  first,  these  two  men,  so  different, 
became  fast  friends.  Chopin's  delicate,  retiring  soul 
found  a  singular  delight  in  Liszt's  strong  and  imposing 
personality.  Liszt's  exquisite  perception  enabled  him 
perfectly  to  live  in  the  strange  dreamland  of  Chopin's 
fancies,  while  his  own  vigor  inspired  Chopin  with  nerve 
to  conceive  those  mighty  Polonaises  that  he  could  never 
properly  play  himself,  and  which  he  so  gladly  committed 
to  the  keeping  of  his  prodigious  friend.  Liszt  undertook 
the  task  of  interpreting  Chopin  to  the  mixed  crowds 
which  he  revelled  in  subduing,  but  from  which  his 
fastidious  and  delicately-strung  friend  shrank  with  some- 
thing like  aversion. 

From  Chopin,  Liszt  and  all  the  world  after  him  got 
that  tempo  rubato,  that  playing  with  the  duration  of  notes 
without  breaking  the  time,  and  those  arabesque  ornaments 
which  are  woven  like  fine  embroidery  all  about  the  pages 
of  Chopin's  nocturnes,  and  which  lift  what  in  others  are 
mere  casual  flourishes  into  the  dignity  of  interpretative 
phrases  and  poetic  commentaries  on  the  text. 

People  were  fond  of  comparing  the  two  young  men 
who  so  often  appeared  in  the  same  salons  together — Liszt 
with  his  finely-shaped,  long,  oval  head  and  profile 
(Tivoire,  set  proudly  on  his  shoulders,  his  stiff  hair  of 
dark  blonde  thrown  back  from  the  forehead  without  a 
parting,  and  cut  in  a  straight  line,  his  aplomb,  his  magnifi- 
cent and  courtly  bearing,  his  ready  tongue,  his  flashing 
wit  and  fine  irony,  his  genial  bonhomie  and  irresistibly 
winning  smile  ;  and  Chopin,  also  with  dark  blonde  hair, 
but  soft  as  silk,  parted  on  one  side,  to  use  Liszt's  own 
words,  "  an  angel  of  fair  countenance  with  brown  eyes, 


THE   MUSIC    OF  THE   FUTUKE.  269 

from  which  intellect  beamed  rather  than  burned,  a  gentle, 
refined  smile,  slightly  aquiline  nose,  a  delicious,  clear, 
almost  diaphonous  complexion,  all  bearing  witness  to  the 
harmony  of  a  soul  which  required  no  commentary  beyond 
itself." 

Nothing  can  be  more  generous  or  more  true  than 
Liszt's  recognition  of  Chopin's  independent  support. 
"To  our  endeavors,"  he  says,  "to  our  struggles,  just 
then  so  much  needing  certainty,  he  lent  us  the  support 
of  a  calm,  unshakable  conviction,  equally  armed  against 
apathy  and  cajolery."  There  was  only  one  picture  on  the 
walls  of  Chopin's  room  ;  it  hung  just  above  his  piano. 
It  was  a  head  of  Liszt. 

The  over-intensity  of  Liszt's  powerful  nature  may  have 
occasionally  led  him  into  extravagances  of  virtuosity, 
wliicli  laid  him  open  to  some  just  criticism.  Robert 
Schumann  observed  acutely  :  "It  appears  as  if  the  sight 
of  Chopin  brought  him  again  to  his  senses." 

It  is  no  part  of  my  present  scheme  to  describe  the 
battle  which  romanticism  in  music  waged  against  the 
prevalent  conventionalities.  We  known  the  general  out- 
come of  the  struggle  culminating,  after  the  most  pro- 
digious artistic  convulsions,  in  the  musical  supremacy  of 
Richard  Wagner,  who  certainly  marks  firmly  and  broadly 
enough  the  greatest  stride  in  musical  development  made 
since  Beethoven. 

That  Hector  Berlioz  emancipated  the  orchestra  from 
all  previous  trammels,  and  dealt  with  sound  at  first-hand 
as  the  elemental  and  expressional  breath  of  the  soul ;  that 
he  was  thus  the  immediate  precursor  of  Wagner,  who 
said  with  more  modesty  than  truth,  "  I  have  invented 
nothing,"  this  is  nowr  admitted.  That  Schumann  was 
afraid  of  the  excesses  into  which  the  romantic  musicians 


270  MY  MUSICAL  MEMORIES. 

threatened  to  plunge,  and,  having  started  well  and  cheered 
them  on,  showed  some  tendency  to  relapse  into  old  form 
at  the  moment  when  his  ingenious  and  passionate  soul 
sank  into  final  and  premature  gloom  —  that  has  been 
whispered.  That  Mendelssohn  was  over-wedded  to 
classical  tradition  and  a  certain  passion  for  neatness  and 
precision  which  prevented  him  from  sounding  the  heights 
and  depths  of  the  revolutionary  epoch  in  the  midst  of 
which  he  moved,  and  by  which  his  sunny  spirit  was  so 
little  affected — this  I  am  now  able  to  see.  That  Spohr  was 
too  doctrinaire  and  mannered,  Meyerbeer  a  great  deal  too 
fond  of  melodrama  and  sensation  for  its  own  sake  ;  that 
Rossini  and  Anber,  exclusively  bent  on  amusing  the  pub- 
lic, were  scarcely  enough  hommes  serieux  to  influence  the 
deeper  development  of  harmony,  or  effect  any  revolution 
in  musical  form  —  most  musicians  \vill  allow.  And  that 
Liszt  by  his  unique  virtuosity  has  made  it  difficult  for 
the  world  to  accept  him  in  any  other  capacity,  is  the 
constant  grievance  paraded  by  his  admirers.  From  all 
which  reflections  it  may  be  inferred  that  many  workers 
have  contributed  to  the  wealth,  resource,  and  emanci- 
pation of  modern  music  from  those  trammels  which 
sought  to  confine  its  spirit  or  limit  its  freedom.  Through 
past  form,  it  has  at  length  learned  to  use  instead  of  being 
used  by  form.  The  modern  orchestra  has  won  the  unity 
and  spontaneity  of  an  independent  living  organism.  Like 
the  body,  it  is  a  complex  mechanism,  but  it  is  to  the 
mind  of  the  composer  as  the  human  body  is  to  the  soul. 
It  has  grown  so  perfect  an  instrument,  and  deals  with  so 
perfectly  mastered  an  art,  that  a  prelude  like  Lohengrin 
or  the  opening  of  Parsifal  sounds  like  the  actual  expres- 
sion of  the  inner  moods  of  the  spirit  rendered  outwardly 
with  automatic  unconscious  fidelity.  The  rule,  the  tech- 


LISZT   AND  THE   BEGGARS.  271 

are  lost,  hidden,  forgotten,  because  completely 
efficacious,  and  subordinated  to  the  free  movements  of 
the  composer's  spirit. 

To  this  latest  triumph  of  the  musical  art  three  men 
since  Beethoven  have  mainly  contributed  ;  their  names 
are  certainly  Hector  Berlioz,  Wagner,  and  Liszt. 

The  darling  of  the  aristocracy,  accustomed  from  his 
earliest  youth  to  mix  freely  with  the  haute  noblesse  .oi 
Germany  and  France,  Liszt  was  a  republican  at  heart. 
He  felt  acutely  for  the  miseries  of  the  people,  and  he  was 
always  a  great  player  for  the  masses.  "  When  I  play," 
he  once  said,  "  I  always  play  for  the  people  in  the  top 
gallery,  so  that  those  who  can  pay  but  five  groschen  for 
their  seats  may  also  get  something  for  their  money." 
He  was  ever  foremost  in  alleviating  the  sufferings  of 
the  poor,  the  sick,  and  the  helpless.  He  seems,  in- 
deed, to  have  been  unable  to  pass  a  beggar,  and  the 
beggars  soon  found  that  out ;  they  would  even  intrude 
upon  his  privacy  and  waylay  him  in  his  garden. 

Once,  when  at  the  height  of  his  popularity  in  Paris,  a 
friend  found  him  holding  a  crossing-sweeper's  broom  at 
the  corner  of  the  street.  ' '  The  fact  is, "  said  Liszt  simply, 
"I  had  no  small  change  for  the  boy,  so  I  told  him  to 
change  me  five  francs,  and  he  asked  me  to  hold  his  broom 
for  him  till  he  returned."  I  forgot  to  ask  Liszt  whether 
the  lad  ever  came  back. 

I  was  walking  with  him  one  day  in  the  private  gardens 
of  the  Villa  d'Este  at  Tivoli  when  some  little  ruffians, 
who  had  clambered  over  the  wall,  rushed  up  to  him  with 
a  few  trumpery  weeds,  which  they  termed  "  bouquets." 
The  benevolent  Maestro  took  the  gift  good-humoredly, 
and,  fumbling  in  his  pocket,  produced  several  small  coins, 
which  he  gave  to  the  urchins,  turning  to  me  apologet- 
ically :  "They  expect  it,  you  know.  In  fact,"  he 


272  MY    MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

added,  with  a  little  shrug,  "  whenever  I  appear  they  do 
expect  it. "  His  gifts  were  not  always  small.  He  could 
command  large  sums  of  money  at  a  moment's  notice. 
The  proceeds  of  many  a  splendid  concert  went  to  manu- 
facturing committees,  widows,  orphans,  sick  and  blind. 
He  founded  pensions  and  provided  funds  for  poor  mu- 
sicians ;  he  set  up  monuments  to  great  artists.  A  pe- 
cuniary difficulty  arising  about  Beethoven's  statue  at 
Bonn,  Liszt  immediately  guaranteed  the  whole  sum.  In 
the  great  commercial  crisis  of  1834  at  Lyons  Liszt  gave 
concerts  for  the  artisans  out  of  work  ;  and  in  Hungary, 
not  long  after,  when  the  overflow  of  the  Danube  rendered 
hundreds  homeless,  Liszt  was  again  to  the  fore  with  his 
brilliant  performances  for  charity. 

All  through  his  life  he  was  an  ardent  pamphleteer, 
and  he  fought  not  only  for  the  poor,  but  in  the  high- 
est interests  of  his  art,  and  above  all  for  the  dignity 
of  his  own  class.  In  this  he  was  supported  by  such 
musical  royalties  as  Mendelssohn,  Rossini,  Paganini, 
and  Lablache.  "We  have  heard  how  in  past  days  the 
musicians  were  not  expected  to  mix  with  the  company, 
a  rope  being  laid  down  on  the  carpet,  showing  the 
boundary  line  between  the  sacred  and  profane  in  social 
rank. 

On  one  occasion  Lablache,  entering  the  music  saloon 
at  a  certain  great  house,  observed  the  usual  rope  laid 
clown  in  front  of  him  when  he  came  on  to  sing  in  a  duet. 
He  quietly  stooped  down  and  tossed  it  aside.  It  was  never 
replaced,  and  the  offensive  practice  dropped  out  of  Lon- 
don society  from  that  day. 

Liszt  refused  to  play  at  the  court  of  Queen  Isabella  in 
Spain  because  the  court  etiquette  forbade  the  intro- 
duction of  musicians  to  royalty.  In  his  opinion  even 
crowned  heads  owed  a  certain  deference  and  homage  to 


LISZT — CZAE   NICHOLAS — LOUIS   PHILIPPE.  273 

the  sovereignties  of  art,  and  he  determined  it  should  be 
paid. 

He  met  Czar  Nicholas  I. ,  who  had  very  little  notion 
of  the  respect  due  to  any  one  but  himself,  with  an  angry 
look  and  a  defiant  word  ;  he  tossed  Frederick  William 
IV.'s  diamonds  into  the  side  scenes  ;  and  broke  a  lance 
with  Louis  Philippe,  which  cost  him  a  decoration. 

He  never  forgave  that  thrifty  king  for  abolishing 
certain  musical  pensions  and  otherwise  snubbing  art.  He 
refused  on  every  occasion  to  play  at  the  Tuileries.  One 
day  the  king  and  his  suite  paid  a  "  private  view"  visit 
to  a  pianoforte  exhibition  of  Erard's.  Liszt  happened  to 
be  in  the  room,  and  was  trying  a  piano  just  as  His  Majesty 
entered.  The  king  advanced  genially  toward  him  and 
began  a  conversation  ;  but  Liszt  merely  bowed  with  a 
polished  but  icy  reserve. 

"  Do  you  still  remember,"  said  the  king,  "-that  you 
played  at  my  house  when  you  were  but  a  boy  and  I  Duke 
of  Orleans  ?  Much  has  changed  since  then." 

"Yes,  Sire,"  replied  Liszt  dryly,  "but  not  for  the 
better." 

The  king  showed  his  royal  appreciation  of  the  repartee 
by  striking  the  great  musician's  name  off  the  list  of  those 
who  were  about  to  receive  the  cross  of  the  Legion  of 
Honor. 

The  idol  of  Parisian  drawing-rooms  at  a  most  sus- 
ceptible age,  with  his  convictions  profoundly  shaken  in 
Catholicism  and  Church  discipline,  surrounded  by  wits 
and  philosophers  who  Avere  equally  sceptical  about  mar- 
riage and  the  very  foundations  of  society  as  then  consti- 
tuted, Liszt's  views  of  life  not  unnaturally  underwent  a 
considerable  change. 

He  had  no  doubt  frankly  and  sincerely  imbibed  Mme. 
Sand's  early  philosophy,  and  his  witty  saying,  which 


274  MY  MUSICAL  MEMORIES. 

reminds  me  of  something  of  the  kind  in  Rasselas,  that 
* '  whether  a  man  marries  or  not,  he  will  sooner  or  later 
be  sure  to  repent  it, ' '  belongs  to  this  period.  HIB  re- 
lations with  Mine.  Sand  have  been  much  misrepresented. 
lie  was  far  more  attracted  by  her  genius  than  by  her 
person,  and  although  for  long  years  he  entertained  for 
her  feelings  of  admiration  and  esteem,  she  never  exer- 
cised over  him  the  despotic  influence  which  drove  poor 
Chopin  to  despair. 

Of  the  misguided  countess  who  threw  herself  upon 
his  protection,  and  whom  he  treated  with  the  utmost 
consideration  and  forbearance  for  several  years,  I  shall 
not  have  much  to  say  ;  but  it  must  be  remembered  that 
he  was  considerably  her  junior,  that  he  did  his  best  to 
prevent  her  from  taking  the  rash  course  which  separated 
her  from  her  family  and  made  her  his  travelling  com- 
panion, and  that  years  afterward  her  own  husband,  as 
well  as  her  brother,  when  affairs  came  to  be  arranged  and 
the  whole  facts  of  the  case  were  canvassed  in  a  conseil 
de  famille  at  Paris,  confessed  of  their  own  accord  that 
throughout  Liszt  had  acted  "  like  a  man  of  honor." 

It  was  during  his  years  of  travel  with  the  Countess 
d'Agoult  in  Italy  and  Germany  that  Liszt  composed  the 
great  bulk  of  his  celebrated  transcriptions  of  songs  and 
operatic  pieces,  as  well  as  the  renowned  Etudes  d* Exe- 
cution Transcendante. 

Liszt's  attempt  to  preserve  his  incognito  in  Italy  con- 
spicuously failed.  lie  entered  Ricordi' s  music-shop  at 
Milan,  and,  sitting  down  at  a  grand  piano,  began  to  im- 
provise. "  'Tis  Liszt  or  the  devil  !  "  he  heard  Ricordi 
whisper  to  a  clerk,  and  in  another  moment  the  great 
Italian  entrepreneur  had  welcomed  the  Hungarian  vir- 
tuoso and  placed  his  villa,  his  box  at  the  opera,  his  car- 
riage  and  horses  at  his  disposal.  Of  course  Ricordi  very 


LISZT'S   CHALLENGE   TO    MILAX.  275 

soon  organized  a  concert,  in  which  the  Milanese  were 
invited  to  judge  the  "  pianist  of  the  future,"  as  he  was 
then  styled.  The  Milanese  were  better  pleased  with  Liszt 
than  was  Liszt  with  the  Milanese.  He  could  not  make 
them  take  to  Beethoven.  They  even  kicked  at  certain 
favorite  studies  of  his  own,  but  he  won  them  by  his 
marvellous  improvisations  on  fragments  of  their  darling 
Rossini,  and  afterward  wrote  a  smart  article  in  the  Paris 
Gazette  JHusicale,  expressing  his  dissatisfaction  with  the 
frivolity  of  Italian  musical  culture,  quoting  in  scorn  a 
voice  from  the  pit  which  greeted  one  of  his  own  ' '  Prel- 
udes Etudes" — it  was  the  word  "etude"  at  which  the 
pit  stuck  —  ' '  Yengo  al  teatro  per  divertirmi  e  non  per 
studiare,"  a  sentiment  which  I  think  I  have  heard  re- 
peated in  more  northern  latitudes. 

Of  course  Liszt's  free  criticism  got  back  to  Milan. 
Milan  was  furious.  Liszt  was  at  Yenice.  The  papers 
denounced  him.  Everybody  proposed  to  fight  duels  with 
him.  He  was  told  that  he  could  not  play  the  piano,  and 
they  handed  him  over  to  the  devil.  Liszt  wrote  pacifying 
letters  in  the  Milanese  papers,  but  the  uproar  only  in- 
creased. What  would  happen  if  he  ever  dared  to  show 
himself  in  Milan  again,  no  one  dared  to  speculate.  He 
was  a  monstrous  ingrate  ;  he  had  insulted  every  one  down 
to  the  decorators  and  chorographers  of  La  Scala,  and 
he  must  be  chastised  summarily  for  his  insolent  pre- 
sumption. 

When  the  disturbance  was  at  its  height,  Liszt  wrote  to 
the  Milanese  journals  to  say  that  he  dech'ned  a  paper  war  ; 
that  he  had  never  intended  to  insult  the  Milanese  ;  that 
he  would  arrive  shortly  in  Milan  and  hold  himself  in 
readiness  to  receive  all  aggrieved  persons,  and  give  them 
every  explanation  and  satisfaction  they  might  require. 

On  a  hot  summer's  day  he  drove  quietly  through  Milan 


276  MY   MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

in  an  open  carriage,  and,  taking  up  his  abode  at  a  fashion- 
able hotel,  awaited  the  arrival  of  the  belligerents.  But  as 
not  one  of  them  turned  up  or  made  the  least  sign,  Liszt 
went  back  to  Yenice. 

When,  however,  in  fulfilment  of  a  promise,  he  re- 
turned in  September,  he  met  with  a  characteristic  snub, 
for  his  concert  was  poorly  attended,  and  then  only  by  the 
upper  classes.  He  had  mortally  wounded  the  people. 
He  did  not  consider  Mercadante  and  Bellini  so  great  as 
Beethoven,  and  he  said  so.  This  was  indeed  a  crime, 
and  proved  clearly  that  he  could  not  play  the  piano  ! 

Toward  the  year  1840  the  relations  between  Liszt  and 
the  Countess  d'Agoult  had  become  rather  strained.  The 
inevitable  dissolution  which  awaits  such  alliances  was 
evidently  at  hand.  For  a  brief  period  on  the  shores  of 
the  Lake  of  Como  the  cup  of  his  happiness  had  indeed 
seemed  full ;  but  es  war  ein  Traum.  ' '  When  the  ideal 
form  of  a  woman,"  so  he  wrote  to  a  friend,  "  floats  before 
your  entranced  soul — a  woman  whose  heaven-born  charms 
bear  no  allurements  for  the  senses,  but  only  wing  the 
soul  to  devotion — if  you  see  at  her  side  a  youth  sincere 
and  faithful  in  heart,  weave  these  forms  into  a  moving 
story  of  love,  and  gi^e  it  the  title,  On  the  Shores  of  the 
Lake  of  Como, ' ' 

He  wrote,  we  may  be  sure,  as  he  then  felt.  He  was 
sometimes  mistaken,  but  he  was  always  perfectly  open, 
upright,  and  sincere. 

A  little  daughter  was  born  to  him  at  Bellaggio,  on  the 
shores  of  that  enchanted  lake.  He  called  her  Cosima  in 
memory  of  Como.  She  became  afterward  the  wife  of 
Yon  Billow,  then  the  wife  and  widow  of  liichard 
AVagner.' 

But  in  1840  the  change  came.  The  countess  and  her 
children  went  off  to  Paris,  and  the  roving  spirit  of  the 


BEETHOVEN'S  STATUE.  277 

great  musician,  after  being  absorbed  for  some  time  in 
composition,  found  its  restless  rest  in  a  new  series  of 
triumphs.  After  passing  through  Florence,  Bologna, 
and  Rome,  he  went  to  Bonn,  then  to  Vienna,  and  entered 
upon  the  last  great  phase  of  his  career  as  a  virtuoso,  which 
lasted  from  1840  to  between  1850-60. 

In  1842  Liszt  visited  Weimar,  Berlin,  and  then  went 
to  Paris.  He  was  meditating  a  tour  in  Russia.  Pressing 
invitations  reached  him  from  St.  Petersburg  and  Moscow. 
The  most  fabulous  accounts  of  his  virtuosity  had  raised 
expectation  to  its  highest  pitch.  He  was  as  legendary 
even  among  the  common  people  as  Paganini. 

His  first  concert  at  St.  Petersburg  realized  the  then 
unheard-of  sum  of  £2000.  The  roads  were  crowded 
to  see  him  pass,  and  the  corridors  and  approaches  to  the 
Grand  Opera  blocked  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  him. 

The  same  scenes  were  repeated  at  Moscow,  where  he 
gave  six  concerts  without  exhausting  the  popular  ex- 
citement. 

On  his  return  to  Weimar  he  accepted  the  post  of 
Kapellmeister  to  the  Grand  Duke.  It  provided  him 
with  that  settled  abode,  and  above  all  with  an  orchestra, 
which  he  now  felt  so  indispensable  to  meet  liis  growing 
passion  for  orchestral  composition.  But  the  time  of  rest 
had  not  yet  come. 

In  1844  and  1845  he  was  received  in  Spain  and  Por- 
tugal with  incredible  enthusiasm,  after  which  he  returned 
to  Bonn  to  assist  at  the  inauguration  of  Beethoven's  statue. 
With  boundless  liberality  he  had  subscribed  more  money 
than  all  the  princes  and  people  of  Germany  put  together 
to  make  the  statue  worthy  of  the  occasion  and  the 
occasion  worthy  of  the  statue. 

The  golden  river  which  poured  into  him  from  all  the 
capitals  of  Europe  now  freely  found  a  new  vent  in  bound- 


278  MY    MUSICAL   MEMORIES. 

less  generosity.  Hospitals,  poor  and  needy,  patriotic  cele- 
brations, the  dignity  and  interests  of  art,  were  all  sub- 
sidized from  his  private  purse. 

His  transcendent  virtuosity  was  only  equalled  by  his 
splendid  munificence  ;  but  he  found  what  others  have 
so  often  experienced — that  great  personal  gifts  and 
prodigious  eclat  cannot  possibly  escape  the  poison  of 
envy  and  detraction.  He  was  attacked  by  calumny,  his 
very  gifts  denied  and  ridiculed,  his  munificence  ascribed 
to  vainglory,  and  his  charity  to  pride  and  ostentation  ; 
yet  none  will  ever  know  the  extent  of  his  private  char- 
ities, and  no  one  who  knows  anything  of  Liszt  can  be 
ignorant  of  the  simple,  unaffected  goodness  of  heart  which 
prompts  them.  Still  he  was  wounded  by  ingratitude  and 
abuse.  It  seemed  to  check  and  paralyze  for  the  moment 
his  generous  nature. 

Fetis  saw  him  at  Coblenz  soon  after  the  Bonn  festival, 
at  which  he  had  expended  such  vast  sums.  lie  was  sitting 
alone,  dejected  and  out  of  health.  He  said  he  was  sick 
of  everything,  tired  of  life,  and  nearly  mined.  But  that 
mood  never  lasted  long  with  Liszt ;  he  soon  arose  and 
shook  himself  like  a  lion.  His  detractors  slunk  away 
into  their  holes,  and  he  walked  forth  victorious  to  refill 
his  empty  purse  and  reap  new  laurels.  His  career  was 
interrupted  by  the  stormy  events  of  1848.  He  settled 
down  for  a  time  at  "Weimar,  and  it  was  then  that  he  began 
to  take  that  warm  interest  in  Richard  Wagner  which 
ended  in  the  closest  and  most  enduring  of  friendships. 

He  labored  incessantly  to  get  a  hearing  for  the 
Lohengrin  and  TannJiduser.  He  forced  Wagner's 
compositions  on  the  band,  on  the  Grand  Duke  ;  he 
breasted  public  opposition  and  fought  nobly  for  the 
eccentric  and  obscure  person  who  was  chiefly  known  as 
a  political  outlaw  and  an  inventor  of  extravagant  com- 


LISZT   AT   SEVENTY-TWO.  279 

positions  wliicli  it  was  impossible  to  play  or  sing,  and 
odiously  unpleasant  to  listen  to. 

But  years  of  faithful  service,  mainly  the  service  and 
immense  prestige  and  authority  of  Liszt,  procured  Wag- 
ner a  hearing,  and  paved  the  way  for  his  glorious  triumphs 
at  Bayreuth  in  1876,  1882,  and  1883. 

At  the  age  of  seventy-two  Liszt  retained  the  wit  and 
vivacity  of  forty.  He  passed  from  Weimar  to  Rome',  to 
Pesth,  to  Berlin,  to  Vienna,  but  objected  to  crossing  the 
sea,  and  told  me  that  he  would  never  again  visit  England. 
Latterly  he  seldom  touched  the  piano,  but  loved  to  be 
surrounded  by  young  aspirants  to  fame.  To  them  he  was 
prodigal  of  hints,  and  ever  ready  to  lavish  all  sorts  of 
kindness  upon  people  who  were  sympathique,  to  him. 

At  unexpected  moments,  in  the  presence  of  some  timid 
young  girl  overpowered  with  the  honor  of  an  intro- 
duction, or  alone  with  a  friend  when  old  days  were  spoken 
of,  would  Liszt  sit  down  for  a  few  minutes  and  recall  a 
phrase  of  Chopin  or  a  quaint  passage  from  Scarlatti,  and 
then,  forgetting  himself,  wander  on  until  a  flash  of  the 
old  fire  came  back  to  his  eyes  as  he  struck  a  few  grand 
octaves,  and  then,  just  as  you  were  lost  in  contemplation 
of  that  noble  head  with  its  grand  profile  and  its  cascade 
of  white  hair,  and  those  hands  that  still  seemed  to  be  the 
absolutely  unconscious  and  effortless  ministers  of  his  fitful 
and  despotic  will,  the  master  would  turn  away — break 
off,  like  one  suddenly  blase,  in  the  middle  of  a  bar,  with 
"  Come,  let  us  take  a  little  walk  ;  it  will  be  cool  under 
the  trees  ;"  and  he  would  have  been  a  bold  man  who 
ventured  in  that  moment  to  allude  to  the  piano  or  music. 

I  saw  Liszt  but  six  times,  and  then  only  between  the 
years  1876  and  1881.  I  have  heard  him  play  upon  two 
occasions  only,  then  he  played  certain  pieces  of  Chopin 
at  my  request  and  a  new  composition  by  himself.  I  have 


280  MY  MUSICAL  MEMORIES. 

heard  Mme.  Schumann,  Biilow,  Rubinstein,  Menter,  and 
Essipoff,  but  I  can  understand  that  saying  of  Tausig, 
himself  one  of  the  greatest  masters  of  technique  whom 
Germany  has  ever  produced  :  "  No  mortal  can  measure 
himself  with  Liszt.  He  dwells  alone  upon  a  solitary 
height." 


THE  END. 


INDEX 


ACCOMPANISTS,  36. 

ALBERT,  Prince,  173. 

ALPS.  144. 

AESCHYLUS,  150,  153. 

AMADEE,  Count,  254. 

AMATI,  97. 

APPONYEE,  Count,  254. 

AMSTERDAM,  64. 

ART,  Gospel  of,  253 ;  nature  of,  267 ; 

power  of,  148 :  study  of.  151  ;  unity 

of,  144, 154. 
ATHENS,  151. 
AUBKR,  160,  167,  270. 
ACDITORY  nerve,  67. 

B. 

BALLADS,  57. 
BALZAC,  236. 

BAVARIA,  King  of,  178,  184,  196,  246. 
BAYREUTII,  164,  184,  225. 
BEETHOVEN,  141,  144,  146,  153,  157,  159 

eeq.,  163,  184,  253,  255,  257,  269,  271, 

275. 

BEGGARS,  271. 
BENNETT,  Sterndale,  42. 
BERGONZI  violin,  25. 
BERLIOZ,  163,  269,  271. 
BIRDS,  Paganini  silencing,  118. 
BLINDNESS,  Deafness  and,  49. 
BLOOD  of  Christ.  200  seq. 
BOWING,  violin,  24,  139. 
BRIDGE,  violin,  46,  92. 
BRIGHTON,  27. 

BRODIE,  Sir  Benjamin,  M.D.,  26. 
BROWNING,  157. 

BULOW,  Hans  von,  174,  181,  251,  276. 
BULWER,  160. 
BYKON,  157,  163,  189. 

C. 

CALCAGNO,  Catherine,  111. 
CAMBRIDGE  Musical  Society,  41. 
CANTABILK-PLAYING,  24. 
CARNIVAL  de  Venise,  23,  140. 
CATHOLICISM,  143,  266. 
CHERUBINI,  253,  257. 
CHOPIN,  59,  159, 163,  252,  266,  268,  274. 
CHORUS,  Greek,  152. 
CHURCH,  taking  orders  in,  47. 
COLERIDGE,  30. 
COLOR  art  of  the  future,  228. 
COMET,  the  great,  253. 


COMO,  Lake,  276. 
CONCERTS,  private,  54. 
CONDUCTORS,  musical,  185. 
CONSERVATORIUM,  254,  i67. 
COSIMA,  wife  of  Wagner,  174,  276. 
CREMONA,  85, 97. 
CZEHNY,  255. 

D. 

D'AGOULT.  Countess,  274. 

DANNREUTHER.  157,  239. 

DEAFNESS  and  blindness,  49. 

DE  BERIOT,  21,  258. 

Du  LAMMENAIS,  163,  252,  267. 

DE  MUSSET,  Alfred.  163,  204. 

DE  PERKYNS,  Mrs.,' 54, 

DEVONPORT,  17. 

DEVRIENT.  Madame  SchrCder,  159. 

DRAMA,  148  seq. 

E. 

EAR,  musical.  52. 
EGOTISM.  Wagner's,  177. 
ELIZA,  Princess,  112,  125. 
EMOTION,  ill-regulated,  74  seq. ;  in  the 

abstract,  80;   parallel  trains  of,  77; 

power  of  music  over,  65  seq. 
ENGLAND,  164. 
ERARD,  257. 
ERNST,  15  seq.,  251. 
ESTERHAZY.  Count,  253  seq. 
EURIPIDES,  150. 
EXHIBITION  of  1851.  8. 
EXILE,  Wagner's,  172. 
EXPRESSION,  147. 

F. 

FARRINGFORD,  29. 
FEKRARA,  114. 

FETIS,  Monsieur,  133, 136,  278. 
FIKSOLE,  116. 

FlNGEK-BOAlSD?,  12. 

FINGERS,  exercising  the,  19,  28. 
FLORENCE,  116. 
FLTING  Dutchman,  107  seq. 
FRESHWATER,  29. 

G. 

GARDXER.  Mr  ,  of  Leicester,  138. 
GEORGK  III.,  259. 
GEORGE  IV..  258  req. 
GERMANY.  Empeior  of,  225. 
GKYER,  Louis,  145. 


282 


INDEX. 


GLUCK,  156. 
GOETHE,  146, 157,  159. 
G6TTERDAMMEHUNG,  242,  250. 
GOUNOD.  241. 
GRAIL,  the  Holy,  200  seq. 
GREEK  drama,  150. 
GREEKS,  music  of  the,  75. 
GRINDERS,  23. 
'GUARNERIUS,  Andrew,  98. 
GUARNERIUS,  Joseph,  102  seq. 
GUARNERIUS  violins,  110. 
GUHR,  I'rof.,  139. 
GUITAR,  111,  119. 

II. 

HARMONICS,  40,  139. 

HARP,  16 

HAYDN,  45.  227,  253 

HEALER,  musical,  72. 

HEINE,  264. 

HELMIIOLTZ,  52. 

HERZ,  258. 

HERZITES,  256. 

HUGO,  Victor,  163.  179,  264. 

HUMMEL,  253.  2.>5,  257. 

HUNGARIAN  Airs,  14. 

I. 

IPFLAND,  146. 
IMAGINATION,  148. 
IN  MEMORIAM,  Tennyson's,  80. 
INSPIRATION,  musical,  S8 
INTERVALS  on  violins,  12,  53. 
ISABELLA,  Queen,  272. 
ITALY,  64. 


J. 


JAELL,  20. 
JOACHIM,  137,  251. 

K. 

KEPPLER,  Dr.,  193. 
KEMPIS,  Thomas  a,  259. 
KEUMESS.  feast  of  the,  64. 
KOTZKBUE,  146. 
KREUTZER'S  Exercises,  28. 

L. 

LABLACHE,  272. 
LACORDAIRE,  1H3. 
LAFAYETTE,  2(3. 
LAPONT,  126,  258. 
LAPINSKI,  18 
LAPRINSKI,  127. 
LAST  Kose  of  Summer,  82. 
LEGEND,  160  i=cq. 
LIED  ohne  WOrte,  77. 
LIGHT,  227. 
LISZT,  14,  17,  163.  174,  180,  181, 181,  190, 

225,  233.  251  stq. 
LISZTITES,  256. 
LOCATELLI,  112. 

LOHENGRIN,  160,  171. 177,  241,  270. 
Louis  PHILIPPE,  2i3. 
LOVE,  123.  245.  261. 
LOVE  Duets,  241. 


M. 

MAGDEBURG.  160,  lf>4. 

MARK,  Wanner' s  dog,  180,  199. 

MATKRNA,  183. 

MAZZINI,  163. 

MEHUL,  160. 

MEISTERSINGER,  175,  180. 

MENDELSSOHN,  9,  29,  61,  157,  163,  165, 
266,  270.  272. 

MENDELSSOJINITES,  256. 

MESSIERISM,  1 17 

MESSIAH,  Oratorio  of,  81. 

METTERNICH,  128 

MEYERBEER,  159,  164  seq  ,  270. 

MIDSUMMER  Night's  Dream,  10. 

MILAN,  275. 

MONTSALVAT,  181,  203. 

MOSCHELES,  257  ecq  ,  266. 

MOZART,  45,  142,  159,  2o3. 

MUNICH,  181. 

MUSICAL  Healer.  72. 

Music,  an  ear  for,  40  ;  as  a  restorative, 
71  seq  ;  conversation  and,  55  ;  defecM 
in  the  art  of,  148  ;  discipline  of  thu 
emotions  by.  74  s>  q.  ;  for  the  masscn, 
81  seq.;  future  of,  70,  209;  in  largo 
halls,  67  seq.;  national  impressions 
from,  61 ;  of  the  Greeks,  75  ;  power  of 
over  emotion,  05. 

N. 

NAPOLEON,  265. 
NEATE,  259. 
NECESSITY,  229. 
NKUE  Sch'oss,  198. 
NICHOLAS  I.,  Czar,  273. 

NlEBELHEIM,  229. 

NIEBELUMG'S  King,  178,   186,  225  seq., 

247  seq. 
NOVELS,  27. 

O. 

OPERA,  155. 
ORCHESTRA,  270. 
ORCHESTRAL  work,  26. 
OURY,  20. 

P. 
PAGAKINT,  15.  21  seq.,  41,  105  seq.,  251, 

263,  265,  272. 
PAGANINI,  Theresa,  128. 
PAINTING,  148. 
PARIS,  136. 

PAKSIFAL,  175,  181,  200  seq.,  270. 
PIANO,  251. 

POETRY,  28,  148,  154  Beq. 
POTTER,  Cipriani,  174. 
PUBLIC  singers  aiid  players,  67. 

ft 

REVOLUTION,  162  seq..  233. 
RUEINGOLD  225  bcq.,  245. 
RHINK  girls,  226. 
RICHTER,  181,  184. 
RICORDI,  274. 
RIENZI,  1GO  seq.,  169. 
RIGA,  164. 
RODK'S  Air  in  G,  24,  42. 


INDEX. 


283 


ROLLA,  108. 

ROMANTICISM,  163,  264,  269. 

ROSSINI,  126,  164,  189,  258,  270,  272,  275. 

RUBINSTEIN,  17,  163,  261,  20li. 

RULE  Britannia,  164. 

S. 
ST.  CRICQ,  Caroline.  261. 

ST.  SlMONIANISM,267. 

SALIEBI,  255. 

SAND,  Madame,  163,  252,  264,  273. 

SANGRAIL,  legend  of,  200. 

SCHILLER.  146,  157,  159. 

SCHLESINGKR,  166. 

SCHNOB,  182. 

SCHUBERT,  59,  159,  253. 

SCHUMANN,  157,  163,  269. 

SCULPTURE,  148. 

SHAKESPEARE,  146,  149,  153,  159. 

SHELLEY,  163. 

SIEGFRIED,  236  seq  ,  249. 

SIMPLICITY,  58. 

SIVORI,  16. 

SOLITUDE,  28. 

SONG  without  word?,  77. 

SOPHOCLES,  150,  153. 

SOUND-FILTERING,  C9. 

SOUND-POST,  46,  88. 

SPOHR,  159,  171,  270. 

SPONTINI,  160. 

STRADIVARIUS,  98  seq. 

STBADIVARUH  violins,  25,  93,  KO. 

STRINGS,    violin,    94 ;    breaking,   114 ; 

plucking,  140. 
SWINBURNE,  157. 
SZAFARY,  Count,  254. 

T. 

TANNHAUSEB,  170,  241. 


TARISIO,  6. 

TAUSIG,  266.  280. 

TEACHING,  19. 

TECHNIQUE,  256,  270,  280. 

TENNYSON,  29,   157,  163 ;    visit  to,   31 

eeq. 

TENNYSON,  Mrs.,  31  seq. 
THALBERG,  2(56. 
THALBERGITES,  256. 
THUNDER-STOKM,  68. 
TITIENS,  Madame,  182. 
TOUKOWSKI,  Paul,  181. 
TRANCE,  9. 
TRINITY  College,  39. 
T  HIST  AN  and  Iseult,  160,  175,  241. 
TUNING  tho  violin,  139. 

V. 

VARNISH,  91. 

VENICE,  187, 190. 

VENUA.  43. 

VICTORIA,  Queen,  173. 

VIOL,  95. 

VIOLIN-COLLECTING,  7. 

VIOLIN,  the,  anntomy  of,  f>7;  grace  of, 

96  ;  holding,  23  ;  learning  to  play,  11  ; 

material  of,  91  ;  power  of,  96  ;  varnish 

of,  91. 

W. 
WAGNER,  114  seq.,  225,  246,  269,  271, 

278 

WALKURE,  230.  248. 
WEBER,  159  seq 
WEDDING  March,  9. 
WHEWELI.,  39. 
WILIIELMJ.  174,  181. 
WILLIAM  IV..  of  Germany,  273. 
WORDSWOUTII,  30. 
WOT  AN,  230. 


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